“Let your boys test their wings. They may not be eagles, but that doesn't mean they shouldn't soar free.”
Milbrandt, C.J. Milbrandt. (2015). On Your Marks: The Adventure Begins. C.J. Milbrandt.
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Jacob screamed in agony as a stream of poison, powerful as a waterfall, gushed over him. A geyser of noxious toxins – d-phenothrin, imiprothrin, and prallethrin mostly – cascaded over his tiny, wounded shell of a body. The immediate impact was instant paralysis. Jacob could not twitch a leg, nor even quiver an antenna. In fact, he could not even “inhale” a breath of air via his invertebrate equivalent of a respiratory system.
The next result of mom's stream of liquid death was an intense sensation of cold – frigid, biting cold, the likes of which Jacob had never before experienced.
The sun was shining.
The weather was temperate.
It was early autumn.
And yet, Jacob was freezing to death, unable to move a muscle.
“Stupid bugs!” came the voice of his own mother.
He yearned to cry out to her, instinctively for help – as an infant would. But, just as an infant, Jacob found he no longer had any conscious control over the muscles of his minuscule body. If any of his remaining pentad of limbs were presently twitching in agony it was not through any conscious effort on his part.
Jacob had been completely and utterly rendered immobile, by his own mom.
“I hate these stupid beetles!” she growled, turning and walking away.
“Beetles are bad mother,” came the voice of Jacob's human body. “Such insects must be destroyed.”
Oh no, thought the real Jacob. That stupid ladybug is not only still impersonating me, she's conspiring to plot my murder!
“They're fine so long as they stay outdoors,” replied mom. “But if I catch any bugs indoors, they'll get theirs!”
She tossed the bottle of insecticide into the air in a brief display of humorous bravado – a suburban housewife play-acting at a bit of desperado gunspinning after having inadvertently murdered her own son.
“I do not like the ladybugs,” answered Jacob's body, with an eerie monotone. “They are the ones who ought to be slain. The others can remain unmolested, in the wild.”
“Are you okay, Jacob?” asked mom, giving what she believed was her son a quick up-and-down glance.
“I am sorry mother,” replied the ladbybug in Jacob's body. “I was talking 'dork' just now. It is a bad habit I am trying to break myself of. I will return to my nest … my 'room' and I will engage in studying my homework. Excuse me.”
“Honestly, I could do without the sarcasm,” mom whispered under her breath. “I get it: I was trying too hard to 'be cool' with the bottle of bug spray. But honestly – teenagers are the worst critics. Fine, fine, whatever. Call your mom out for 'talking dork.' We'll see who's the dork the next time he needs money for video games, comic books, or something.”
Mom! I need you right now! the real Jacob screamed silently.
It was a voiceless cry of purely mental energy, though.
No sound at all was produced by the now perfectly still husk of an insect body.
What do you do now?
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