THE GOD OF INSECTS

The God of Insects lives in a stone house at the edge of the forest. I hear it is full of gorgeous, glittery insect wings, which he lends to followers who need them. They say that when the sun slants low in the sky, the light catches the wings, scattering rainbows through the air, like whispers of forgotten dreams. The god himself is a figure of mystery, often draped in shadows and soft whispers, with a voice like the rustling of leaves.

The villagers who live on the forest's outskirts tell tales of him in quiet voices, a mix of reverence and wariness. They claim his house has no windows, only doors that open of their own accord when the forest deems you worthy. Others say you must bring an offering, something fragile, something that speaks to the soul of the earth itself. Some leave delicate bones or petals from rare flowers at his door. Some have left entire songs, written and sung only to disappear into the woods with no echo. I have nothing so grand to offer, only my longing, which has grown restless within me, stretching its wings like a caged bird.

I have always felt small, tethered to the earth by a weight I can’t name. I’ve dreamed of wings, dreamed of flight. Not just any flight, though, but the kind that carries you beyond the clouds, where the air thins and the world becomes a distant memory. My yearning for freedom feels like a secret that hums in my bones, an ache I cannot silence. The God of Insects, I’m told, understands such longings. He trades in them, his wings spun from the desires we keep hidden in the folds of our hearts.

So, one evening, when the sky was bruised purple and the forest smelled of damp earth and autumn decay, I set out. I left my small house with nothing but the clothes on my back and a story whispered on my lips.

The path to the god’s house was winding and narrow, and as I walked, I felt the air change around me. The wind was different here, sharp, like the touch of a thousand tiny wings brushing against my skin. The trees seemed taller, the shadows deeper, as though the forest itself was watching, waiting. My feet moved silently over the mossy ground, and soon, the house came into view.

It was smaller than I had imagined, its stone walls thick with age and covered in ivy that glowed faintly in the dim light. The door was made of dark wood, polished smooth, without a handle or knocker. For a moment, I stood there, heart hammering in my chest, unsure of what to do. But the door creaked open, as though sensing my presence, and a soft, warm light spilled out, beckoning me inside.

I stepped into the house, and the first thing I noticed was the quiet. A heavy, expectant stillness, as though the very air was holding its breath. The room was dimly lit, and everywhere I looked, there were wings. They hung from the walls in frames of gold and silver, arranged in delicate patterns that shimmered in the low light. They were like jewels, fragile and beautiful. Wings from moths, butterflies, dragonflies, and creatures I couldn’t name. Some were so tiny they seemed like a mere breath of color, while others spanned across entire walls, their colors so vibrant they looked like they had captured pieces of the sky itself.

And then I saw him.

The God of Insects stood in the shadows, his form almost blending into the room around him. His eyes gleamed, reflecting the light of a thousand wings. His presence was both unsettling and calming at once, like the silence before a storm. He was neither young nor old, neither human nor entirely other. His face held an eternal knowing, as if he had seen countless lives pass through his doors.

“Ah, a seeker,” he said, his voice a melody woven with rustling leaves and the hum of life. “What brings you to my humble abode?”

I swallowed hard, feeling small beneath his gaze. “I wish to borrow a wing.”

A smile flickered across his lips, as ephemeral as a gossamer thread. “Ah, the longing for flight! It is a desire as old as the stars themselves. But tell me, child of earth, what do you offer in return?”

I hesitated, the weight of my desire pressing heavily upon my heart. “I have nothing of worth, save my dreams and the stories I carry.”

“Dreams are a currency all their own,” he replied, beckoning me closer. “Share with me a tale, a whisper of your soul, and I shall grant you a wing.”

And so I did. The story I told the god of insects was one of longing, of a yearning so deep it had sunk into my bones. It wasn’t the kind of tale that would stir legends or inspire grand songs, no, mine was quieter, more fragile. It was woven from the smallest moments, the lost afternoons of my life, filled with the ache of wanting something I couldn’t quite grasp.

I stood there before him—this god of wings and buzzing whispers—and I spilled it all.

“I’ve spent most of my life bound to the earth,” I began, my voice barely a murmur. “Each step I take feels heavier than the last, as if some unseen weight is pressing down on me.” I paused, glancing at the god's amber eyes, which blinked slowly, watching me as though he could see straight through my skin. “There were nights,” I continued, “when I would lie beneath the stars, and my chest would hurt, you know? Hurt because the sky was so vast and there I was, stuck, too small, too… grounded. I’d look up, watching birds cross the sky and wonder what it felt like to escape like that.”

The god’s stone house sat silent behind him, filled with the glinting fragments of insect wings, but I kept speaking, hoping—no, needing—to make him understand.

“I used to chase butterflies as a kid,” I said, my mouth curling into a brief smile at the memory. “Dragonflies, too. I thought if I could just catch one, maybe I could share in its freedom for a second. Back then, everything seemed possible. The world was huge, full of light, full of wonder.” I swallowed hard, the words getting heavier. “But the years went by, and that wonder slipped away. Life got smaller. Narrower.”

I could feel the god’s gaze intensifying, as if he was pulling the story out of me.

“And then there was him.” My voice softened. “He made me feel like I could fly again. I fell in love with someone once, and it was the closest I’ve ever come to knowing what flight feels like. He made everything lighter, made me believe, for a while, that I wasn’t stuck. That maybe I could rise above all of it. But people leave, don’t they?”

My breath caught, and I clenched my fists, the rawness of it catching me off guard.

“He left, and when he did, he took all of that with him. The light, the weightlessness, the dreams of a different life, they all just… went. I’ve been searching ever since. I’ve tried new places, new paths, new faces, but none of it fills the emptiness that’s been dragging me down ever since.”

The god tilted his head, his antennae twitching, as though tasting the sorrow that hung in the air between us. I wasn’t sure he cared. Gods don’t feel, do they? Not like us. But he listened, and that was enough.

“I came here because I’m tired,” I confessed, my voice cracking. “I’m tired of watching the sky from the ground. I’m tired of feeling like my feet are buried in the earth while everything else just moves on without me.”

The God of Insects blinked slowly again, his wings fluttering in a shimmer of light. The sound was soft, like the sigh of the wind through a field of tall grass.

When I finished, the God of Insects was silent for a long moment. He regarded me with those luminous eyes, his face unreadable. Then he stepped toward one of the walls, his fingers brushing against the delicate wings that hung there. “Your story,” he said softly, “is heavy with longing.”

“I don’t want to fly forever,” I said softly, my hand trembling as I took them. “Just long enough to remember what it feels like.”

The god didn’t respond. He simply nodded, as if to say he understood, even if he didn’t truly care.

He turned back to me, and in his hand, he held a single wing. It was small and fragile, no larger than the palm of my hand, and it shimmered with a pearlescent glow. “This,” he said, offering it to me, “is yours. But know this: wings are not meant to carry you forever. They are a gift, fleeting and fragile. They will lift you, but they will not hold you.”

I reached out, my fingers trembling as I took the wing. It felt weightless, as though it might dissolve in my hand at any moment. The god’s eyes softened, and for a brief moment, I thought I saw a flicker of something. Understanding, perhaps, or pity.

“Thank you,” I whispered, my voice barely audible.

He fastened the wings to my back with a gentle touch that surprised me, as if he knew the fragility of the moment, of me. I stepped out of the house, my heart pounding as I felt the wings flutter behind me, light as air.

The God of Insects nodded. “Go now,” he said, “and fly.”

As I left the stone house, I felt the weight of the earth lift from my shoulders. The forest seemed brighter, the air lighter, and for the first time in my life, I felt truly free. With a deep breath, I unfurled the wing, and as it caught the wind, I felt myself rise. The ground fell away beneath me, and I soared into the sky, my heart beating in time with the flutter of the wing.

The world below me blurred into a tapestry of color and light, and I flew higher and higher, until the air was thin and the stars seemed within reach. For a moment, I was weightless, boundless, and the sky was mine.

But even as I soared, I knew the god’s words were true. The wing was delicate, and its magic was fleeting. Soon, the wind began to tug at it, pulling it apart thread by thread. I felt myself falling, slowly at first, then faster, as the ground rushed up to meet me.

The earth welcomed me back, as it always did, but in that brief, beautiful moment, I had tasted flight. And though I fell back to the earth, my heart was lighter than it had ever been.