Short story: A bugs life.

Sam Thorn was not a particularly nice boy. In fact, some would have gone so far as saying the Thorn boy was quite possibly the meanest boy they had ever met. Because he had certain ... proclivities; certain tendencies that simply didn’t sit well with normal, kind-spirited, people.

            Torturing animals; pulling the wings off flies, burning spiders beneath the lens of a magnifying glass, were an everyday pastime for the likes of Sam Thorn. And it repulsed them.

It was cruel.

It was needless.

It was vindictive.

But his mother, silent fool that she was, simply allowed him to do it. She allowed him into the overgrown patch of garden he so dearly loved and said nothing.

“I once saw that awful boy pull the tail off a mouse.” One observer absently commented.

“If you think that’s bad, you should see what he did to the puppy I saw him dragging around the street behind his bike last week,” said another.

“Someone needs to do something about him.”

The neighbourhood complained furiously to the boy’s mother. They threatened, they preached, and they picketed. And although she promised something would be done, very few of her promises ever bore fruit, and Sam Thorn went straight back to doing what he did best.

“They hate me, don’t they?” He asked mother one afternoon over lunch, tears burning the corners of his eyes. “They really hate me.”

“No, Sam, they don’t hate you.” His mother optioned. It was the politest lie she could muster. “They don’t understand you – there’s a difference. I suppose life is like that for some boys; they’re misunderstood.”

“Do you think they’d ever hurt me?”

Mother looked at him, wide eyed. “Goodness gracious me, Sam, I don’t think they would ever do that. That would make them make them bad people, and we don’t live around bad people.”

Sam smiled. “I’ll try and be a nicer person,” he promised. “I really will.”

Mother turned on him, smiling, and said, “You’re already a nice boy, Sam. People simply don’t understand you.”

That afternoon, Sam Thorn went back into the garden and made his way through the brambles and tall grass and settled himself where a great many of his decomposing victories were stowed. Then, a little before seven o’clock, just as he was burning the legs off a spider with a magnifying glass his grandfather had given him for his seventh birthday, he heard a voice from somewhere in the tall grass.

“Hello, Samuel.” The voice said.

Confused, he peered through the tall grass. He didn’t expect to find anything, but he did – something quite remarkable, in fact. Because there, not three inches from where he had dropped his left hand, sat a spider much larger than usual breed he tortured.

“You can talk?” Sam enquired, curious.

“I can,” claimed the insect. “See?”

Sam laughed. “You’ll make a great victim,” he smirked. “Think how you’ll scream as I pull off your legs.”

“No, not me,” the spider replied. “I will not scream, I promise. But I believe you will. Eventually.”

Sam brought the magnifying glass up and over when the spider bit the tip of his index finger.

Sam clutched his wrist and closed his eyes as they fogged against the diminishing light. Pain followed that as something inside his stomach ignited; sending hot lances of pain twisting and turning deep down inside. A moment later, Sam Thorn collapsed.

Nightfall came quickly. Mummy waited by the back door for dear Sam to return, but he never did. With tears in her eyes she called the police and claimed someone must have abducted and hurt her son. A manhunt was formed shortly and the neighbourhood quickly questioned. Unremarkably, and not surprisingly, nobody claimed to know what had happened to Sam much to his mummy’s chagrin.

The manhunt kept on for almost four weeks. Policemen and women worked tirelessly to find the missing Thorn boy. They were about to throw their hands in the air and claim the process little more than an exercise in futility when, purely by accident, they found the boy’s body in the tall grass. He was dead. He was as stiff as a coffin-nail.

But oh God, how the poor mite must have died!

His body had been nipped and stung from head to toe. His eyes eaten clean out of their sockets. More; his mouth now home to newly born spiders and bugs, each one eager to make a home of him. As they hauled Sam’s body out of the tall grass, near cocooned in silk, it occurred to the paramedics that it sounded like laughter was coming from somewhere within the grass. But, of course, they couldn’t be sure.

And even if they were sure of it, who would ever believe them?