Down The Wormhole

Childhood Tales


Enchantment begins between dusk and dark, generally after a light rain.

We tiptoe across the Room of Three Mats onto the slatted floor of the kitchen. Be sure to snag matches while the maid is not looking, Third Brother, relied upon for a successful venture, quickly cautions us.  You have the rubber bands? Eldest Brother, unchallenged leader of the troop, huskily barks the order.

We pull out a few sturdy reeds from the broomstick resting against the bathroom door. Intent upon learning the finer points of our undertaking, we huddle around while Eldest Brother wraps the rubber band across the tip of the reed. Match, please. The smell of burnt rubber make us pucker. That should be sticky enough, we solemnly pronounce.

Now we're on foot in pursuit of the backyard quarry. Stealthily but ever so gently, we draw the curtain of haze. We get engulfed within the fabric folds of space and time. We hunch over, keep still, and lie in wait. 

Finally, Clarity! 

We're peering into a wrinkle in time that has enshrined a Holy Conclave of myriad winged creatures.
Airplane Bugs screech, then land on damp loam. A pair of Praying Murmur remain poised on the willowy stalks of the wheat of grass. Four-Eyes with their strategic vision hover overhead before settling on a single blade of pandan leaf. Darning Needles congregate around the stump of carabao grass. A multitude of mythical-looking creatures fly by - their long svelte bodies skimming the unwieldy pampas.


I stealthily let out my crude harpoon, carefully quieting its swing. Then delicately reach out toward the prey - regaling at the fact that soon I will hold Infinity in the palm of my hand, and Eternity in an hour.

The Winged Bug Hunting Season has begun!