Spoiler
So, this was written for English class-- because my book has weird prompts. I have NO CLUE what it is, and it's a bit random and far from a serious piece. A warm-up for the rest of the book, methinks. 377 words. Not pretty at all, seeing as my goal was to 'tell a story in under 500 words, focus on the narrative' blahblahblah. Pretty words and emotions were not my focus. xD A totally for-fun project.
I poked at the pile of dung with the blade of my shovel, peering into the big mess. The foul odour was so strong at that point in decomposition that it made my eyes water. Of course, most normal human beings would find this patch of excreted waste materials repulsive-- but not me. No siree, Mr. Charles Arbut was not disgusted by something that every creature must be rid of in order to survive.
Honestly, I have no idea as to what all of the ha-bub is about when it comes to prodding at something so natural; but I'd really prefer it if my fiance held my hand, (which she had threatened not to do on numerous occasions), so I always forced myself to wear Latex gloves and wash my hands once I had returned home. My darling Patsi is a force to be reckoned with... just don't tell her that I had just so happened to forget my gloves that day, alright? I forgot to use soap when I got home, too, which may pose a vast amount of problems for my love-life if she were ever to find out.
But alas, this little trek was an important one. I was hot on the trail of a new species, pardon me, sub-species, of dung beetle; on that would revolutionize the way that biologists looked at the creepy little animals. Okay, so that may have been a bit of an over-exaggeration, but a man can dream, can't he?
Finally, after many minutes of prodding, something finally happened. A tiny black beetle with a shimmering shell scampered out from under the pile. I knew right away, judging by the disproportionate and rather ugly face, that this was the beetle I was looking for. Quicker than Flash and five times as determined as Batman, I pounced, landing with my hands cupped over a small patch of ground. One look up, however, told me that my mission had been a complete failure. A few feet away, the blasted bug was flying into the trees, too far and too fast for me to catch.
I smacked my head onto the ground, groaning in defeat. It always had to be me, didn't it? It always had to be poor old Charles Arbut.
