This is a story for Alastair’s Photo Fiction.
copyright Alastair Forbes
12 Hours to Live
“How old are you?” Erin asked the mayfly perched on her arm.
“About two hours,” the mayfly said. “Sorry if I seem distracted; I really need to find a mate.”
“Don’t we all,” Erin muttered. “I’m 38 years old and haven’t found one.”
“What’s a year? I live for 12 hours.”
“Ah, in your time scale, I’m about 6 hours old,” Erin said.
“Six hours? Holy aphids, you’re old.”
“So, what are you going to do with the next 10 hours, until you die?”
“I’m going to fly around, find a mate, have children, maybe go sightseeing—I’m hearing good things about the yard across the street. I don’t even need to stop to eat.”
“Sounds like a busy day.”
“Busy life, you mean. When you’re a mayfly, you gotta go like there’s no tomorrow. Because there isn’t one. So, what are you going to do?”
“Uh, well you see, there’s this CSI marathon on TV today . . .”
The Green-Walled Tower 