Bugs.

It was huge. It was black. And it flew. Around my bed, to be precise. It was a battleship of a bug, an monster of uncountable appendages, ridiculous proportions, and an indeterminate number of body sections, all bound together by some mystical dark force. Had it not appeared to possess several times the requisite number of legs, I would have called it Death in insect form, but this unearthly beast was beyond classification in any known arthropod genus. As my body locked into position, my reflexes rejoicing at the advent of the crisis for which they had been designed, my highly-developed brain (nourished by the sort of novels one cannot admit to having read except among a trusted few) came to the logical realization that here, at last, was the probe I had so long expected to see. Here was evidence of extraterrestrial surveillance; I had known it all along.

Needless to say, my father was unable to locate the levitating Leviathan. While I searched the basement for harpoons, pitchforks, and holy water, he grabbed the net we used to catch tadpoles, fish, frogs, and the occasional budgie (what good would such a weapon have done him?) and poked around my room. I sleep with heavy books beside my bed now. (Which is true, but after all, I always have.)

Today, my brother was on the garage roof when he stepped on a bees' nest.

It isn't really my story to tell, but I have no doubt that it is one of the worst experiences of his life. I've never heard anyone scream like that before. He leapt down (eight feet up, and he leaps down?) and ran into the house, shrieking and flailing his arms, a cloud of striped warriors following him everywhere he fled.

'Get out get out!' I screamed. 'Go to the park! Go find mom at the park!'

Exit brother, unshod, tearing for the park, the hounds of hell at his back. Exit brother's friend, running for home and his own mother. Cut to attic, as I contemplate climbing out through the window. Close-up on lingering swarm in living room of house. Back to attic, with me pulling on pants and putting socks on -- two on my feet, two on my hands.

Brother's friend came back, bringing his mother, three other kids, and antihistamines. In honour of the fresh audience, I provided my best impression of a paranoid, senile widower.

Paranoid, Senile Widower (locally, Old Sockhands): 'Go away! Get out while you can!' (Waves socked hands.) 'They're all around you! They'll get you too!' (Runs down two flights of stairs, charges out front door. Socked feet, hands disappear into distance.)

And my brother. Panic attack, pink and swollen, chunks of skin missing. Mercifully, bones unbroken and allergically unreactive. But the trauma, and the pain.

Perhaps I'll just stop sleeping. I'll patrol the second floor, standing sentinel outside my brother's door, armed with a rolled newspaper and a rubber boot. And always, always watching for the Martian bug.

EDIT: I forgot. Get Fuzzy, I am shamed to admit, was today a fairly accurate reflection of the way my own mind works. I'll never make a politician.

The idyll.