Do the arthropod dream?

The heat wave was spreading. Biting wind scrapped the skin dry extorting moisture and spiraling into nothing. This was climate of no mercy. A dog panted in the shade of lone tree next to barracks of single room homes along the lone railway track. The dust storms assaulted the homes every now and then, increasing its frequency and intensity as the glassy sun climbed to the top. The light blue weathered plastic barricades in the courtyards fluttered and fought vainly. With each gust of untiring wind the women in the homes groaned their curses “Hell be with you” “It’s better to die” “The day is hottest hell”. Children wailed. By afternoon homes have quietened in its own exhaustion. They slept lulled in the drone of water cooler and buzzing houseflies. The boy was awake and he caught a fly. He cusped it in his little fingers, the fly pounding on his flesh as if to tell him that this is a mistake. He netted his fingers to dexterously grab the fly on its belly. The two large compound eyes and three small simple eyes stared him in waves of perplexed purple yellow tinge. He took out the broken blade hid under his tongue while held the fly on to the floor, and with a little jerk behead it. The proboscis flickered before stilling. He collected the head in a match box. The boy barely into his teens squeezed his tiny body through the pliable bars of half opened window. The sun was relentless but that didn’t dissuade him. The dog attempted to sway its tail but on being ignored it went back on its chin and was mildly aware. The boy climbed the tree, he knew where the moths blend into the bark. He knew when the butterflies flicked the flowers and bees waggle its secret. He knew the pattern that held them enchanted. The world was mysterious. So he drilled the eyes to search for the sight and the brains for the thoughts. What he found left him disappointed. It was always some inexplicable sticky gel. Not even the smell carry any memory or recognition of past. He searched for the blister beetles and the lady birds. The dragon flies were of special interest as he dissected them with renewed vigor. The mantis eyes pendulate its dark spot like a dying cathode screen. The arthropod heads hurtled against each other as the boy buoyant in his search climbed the fencing onto the open field across the railway track. The heat wave had sedated the little lives, they desperately clung on to some shade and try lull their senses. The boy liked the summer. The earth burned, the trees burst and the air carried the scent of soot. He looked at the dog that had followed him, it squirmed and tucked its tail. He patted it. “Nice boy” he said as he felt it’s skull under the skin while the dog licked his fingers. Later that day he told his parents that he loved dogs and would like to have them as pet.

Late into the night, he got under the bed and opened the match box. The decapitated heads have come alive, they float and make soft buzzing noise as if taking care not to awaken anyone, flickered into little ember and wisped into the darkness.