Anne, the Annex and I, by Anna Ward

The Flying Emu, by Tahlia See

during these casual feeding relationships was very effective in communicating the nature of such indifferent intercourse. This is because soon after I had finished, most of the humans would declare that “mosquitoes love me!”. I found this extremely offensive, as how could so many humans take me as such a promiscuous mosquito? Although it is every mosquito’s dream to touch an alive human heart, I am quite aware of the limits of my strength and therefore my complete inability to ever be able to break – let alone play – with one!

Day-3

I sat 46 mosquito-lengths behind George as he once again dissolved back into his writing desk. I have always preferred to use his pen name over ‘Eric Arthur Blair’ as I feel our addiction to tub-thumping socialist augury is united under his alternate identity, extending our connection far beyond a skin-deep level. George’s passionate oration of current political events would infallibly ignite all 6 of my legs, although they would quiver – rather painfully – from the loud reverberations when he reached his climax in inveighing against ‘the capitalist machine’. It was then that I found myself circling his perturbing forehead veins like a halo, becoming lost in the whirlwind of George’s psyche. I like to think that it was my sustained buzzing that triggered a raised hand and an angry face, as it was only when I returned to my spot perched on top of the lamp that the vein melted back into his wrinkles, with one hand flying down the paper. I always wondered what it was like to reduce oneself to mere pen and paper – the power of morphing into the cyclone of quixotic politics through a penname that painted an untouchable, a visionary.

George Orwell liked his personal space. I respected that. Although every miniscule muscle in my slender body ached for any exposed section of flesh, I knew that if he were to understand me, I would have to do my best to understand him. This led to many hungry nights, dreaming about the rich indulgence of O negative –intoxicating my head and coursing through my thorax. But there was no room for love bites in this relationship. Our courtship was one of two like-minded socialists; realists who appreciate the power of requited love. It is only now that I can see my direct influence on George’s writing, namely ‘Animal Farm’ – which in my opinion should’ve been titled ‘Insect Farm’ to pay better homage to his primary muse. ****************

George had strange ways of displaying his love for me, although I appreciated all the little things nonetheless. From swatting the spaces of my orbit to give me a cool breeze, to renewing our room’s aromas with sickening scents of citronella whenever I started to stink, to clapping for my imitations of the Royal Air Force’s very own ‘Mosquitoes’ that dominated the radio’s reports. George would never have any intention to kill another animal without cause, but his love language at times – unintentionally I am certain – hurt me. However, the invigorating sensation of love was more than enough to nourish my strength and patience, virtues which I came to understand were the pillars of our flourishing engagement.

Day-4

After a couple of mosquito-years, I began to understand the root of George’s rage, labelled ‘The Battle of Britain’. Guarding one’s hatching areas, using humans to ensure your own survival, flying over your land to scope out suspects – I could truly relate to the dilemma. Even though I could not aid the detonation of Nazi

Germany as I would undoubtedly be deemed physically unfit to help the other ‘Mosquitoes’ in the Royal Air Force – largely due to the fact that I could not yet figure out how to release explosives from my abdomen from 24,000 feet – I was thankful that both George and I were rejected from the military, as it granted us the very thing that war takes away; time. Upon reflection, I now struggle to understand the tangible success of the human war. How does killing a fascist human for a liberal one truly make any difference? The overall impact of a single human life in the scale of a war’s bloodshed would be as miniscule as an amputated mosquito fresh out of its pupal case. I think that is another one of the reasons why Orwell and I fell so deeply in love –our trust in the power of literature over futile physical violence was liberating. But I have often wondered about the human infatuation with superiority. Yes, I am a democratic mosquito, but during my teenage years of travelling, I associated with many different humans. Back then I would feed on any vein in blissful ignorance, but now I am disgusted by my uneducated appetite that stuck me into all types of sinister political activists. As much as I would like to know how certain aspects of my disposition were developed or learned, or if I was even born with them, the consuming emptiness of life beyond death quite ironically deems such queries as trivial. In all truth, my last living thought was 297 miles away from any of the politics that eclipsed most of my life. My last living thought begins at the end, in which I refuse to abide by the suffocating confines of a story of death. And so, my story shall end with life, love, and passion – to escape readers’ reproval that follows any controversial piece of notable literature and to end my tale with the truth of my experience. I will recount the denouement of George and I’s tender allurement, the magic of our consummation, the ecstasy of fulfilling our preordained fate. To be

completely honest, I always thought our first time would have lasted a bit longer than it did, would have had a few floral scented candles scattered here and there, maybe George would have even locked the citronella diffusers in the cupboard. However, the raw magnetism, the intoxicating connection that radiated throughout that night, will always be enough. It was just past dusk when the warm light of the desk lamp penetrated every corner of the study. The radio antenna stuck out like a sore thumb against the illuminated wall in front of George, sitting patiently in pounding silence. Usually, the radio’s sustained buzzing of mumbled war updates kept me amused throughout the long days when George became engrossed in his writing, but its momentary reticence was for once comforting. In a peculiar way, I can see how war is peace, a sentiment with which George also sympathised. Even though George and I both knew that the radio’s silence translated to bloodshed during the war, we could still appreciate the serenity of such momentary ignorance. Unsurprisingly, the radio set into its murmured motion once again, informing us that the Luftwaffe had switched to attacking airfields, destroying British aircraft on the ground. This news stimulated a swollen, erect neck as George’s fingers clenched into the depths of his palms. My proboscis pulsed with desire as I could feel his veins throbbing to the beat of my cold-blooded heart. I could no longer resist him as I watched the war seep into every one of his blood vessels. It is human conflict that holds true power as in the face of pain there are no heroes, but there are no boundaries either. I became inebriated by George’s sweet, sickening blood that pounded throughout every millimetre of my spindly body. All six of my legs melted into his warm and tender flesh as the momentary euphoria of a predestined love tragedy prevailed over our consciousness. A gentle gush of wind tested the adhesion of my tarsi as I was met with

the embrace of George’s palm pillowing into my body. I can still hear the blood that pumped throughout his hand before it became deafening as our souls united in a fleeting instant of fervent bliss. If you loved someone, you loved him, and when you had nothing else to give, you still gave him love.

It was during these last few moments that George and I looked from mosquito to man, and from man to mosquito, and from mosquito to man again; but already it was impossible to say which was which. Our love was too beautiful, too pure for the world that I was forced to leave behind.

The terminating trickle of blood that simmered in my brain before being sucked out into oblivion, was the all-powerful, all-intoxicating warmth of love. My love for George Orwell will always sustain the cravings of my mind, the yearnings of my heart and keeps me ever so content in the abyss of the afterlife. And so, I raise a wing to knowing that I will never be alone.