Gavin vs. God

As a firefly, Gavin wasn’t going to have a very long life, but who didn’t? Short, sure, but God had made him burn bright for a reason. The world was big, bigger for him than most, and he was going to see it all. Unfortunately, about 15 seconds ago, he had been swallowed by a frog, and now, he was going to die.

Gavin should have been more careful. A few days ago, when Gavin was much younger, his uncle Lewis had been swallowed by a frog. One moment they were flying together, the next moment Gavin was flying alone, talking to no one in particular when he glanced down. He could still remember watching Lewis’ last words pulse through the frog that got him. “Stay away,” he had said. “I’ve had my fun.”

Gavin had not had his fun. As he flew around the frog’s stomach, desperate to stay out of the bile below, he realized how little fun he had ever actually had. He’d never tasted dandelion nectar, never skimmed along the surface of the swamp (even though he had always meant to and it was right there). Never grown old, or really grown up. He had never even been in love. Love? He thought. Who cares about love? I’ve never had SEX! He had never lit his mating dance and found the special someone to spawn with. What kind of god would allow his short little life to go without something so simple? He hovered in that putrid stink and sweltered in the heat. This was the only warmth from another he’d ever felt. Or ever feel. Gavin was going to die, and he was going to die alone.

Lewis died alone, but he had lived so much! Two and a half months! He even gave Gavin 237 cousins to play with. Talk about a life well lived. He’d been ready. Gavin was not. If Lewis had flashed out a warning, then Gavin would flash a battle cry. If he could signal his friends, maybe they could launch some sort of attack. 237 wonderful cousins and a couple dozen good acquaintances could swarm the frog; kill it with their body heat. Or they could recruit a pack of blood-thirsty mosquitos to come and drain this sack of warts for all it was worth. They could even just fly inside, burst the bastard from within. They could, maybe, just force the frogs mouth to stay open so he could escape. Maybe they could lure it into something sharp? Have it hop to its own death? Maybe?

But his wings were getting tired. Their beats were getting heavy. Soon he would fall. He could signal for help, but there was nothing anyone could do. He knew that. Why had God given him such a short life? And what kind of loving god would have shortened it further? His one brief moment on this planet, snuffed out for this stupid frog to have a light snack. The pool beneath him was getting closer. Soon his feet would dip beneath the surface, and they would burn. He would scream. Scream with no one near to help him bear it. No one would even hear him.

He spoke no final words; gave no final message. In his living coffin he lit his first mating dance, hoping to lure someone to join him in the bright dark. Forever.