we have a story for you

the bog is going through changes! good ones! one of us has already moved to brussels, patiently waiting for the other to join. issue 007 is coming together slowly but surely, we’re really excited to share it with you. we’re delighted to have another platform for our contributors’ work - incredible wide-ranging stories from everywhere that need to be heard. we genuinely love these pieces and can’t wait for you to read them too! here is the fourth of the series, from mnemotope issue 005.

Moth Season by Derek Scott Russell

Each year as the spring blossoms begin to wither and are replaced by a plethora of vibrant green and yellow grasses, an interesting phenomenon occurs. Every night, as afternoon succumbs to dusk, emerging lanterns cast a fiery glow upon our newly formed shadows. The soft flutter is unmistakable. Crawling out from corners and the windows we left open for the breeze, tenebrous creatures appear from Earth’s dark places. Attracted to the fires of suburban sprawl now illuminating the eastern plains, these Miller Moths seek deliverance.

Deriving from the Army Cutworm, these strange beasts follow an unusual lifecycle. Born in the eastern plains of Colorado’s Front Range, the quarter-sized creatures emerge with an insatiable appetite for the fruits of the Rocky Mountains: wildflower nectar. This appetite is their main dilemma; the wildflower blooms are concentrated miles away from the moths’ breeding grounds. Upon emerging from their pupae, the full-grown insects must begin their treacherous journey to the west, migrating through the municipality of Colorado Springs.

Moth season, as we sometimes called it, plagued us year after year; the sighting of one moth each June signaled the chaos that would ensue. The city’s many inhabitants would soon mobilize, arming themselves with vacuums and fly swatters in a war against the descending swarms. As the insects swept across the city, seeking high ground, the annual war would begin, a war for power and dominance. While many spent their evenings smashing the intruders, my dad opted for a different approach. Each night, my family would begin the ritual of turning, obscuring, and relighting our many lamps. We hoped to lure them away from the many important rooms. My dad would then stand on the nearest furniture, a couch maybe or a stool, and rapidly clasp his fingers around the moth, forming a gentle cavity within his hand. Once the marauder was firmly apprehended, we would jump up from our observation decks (often a safe distance away in case the procedure failed) and quickly open the door to our back porch. My dad would then expel the passenger back into the night, back to the shadows from which it emerged.

Sometimes this ritual would take place three or four times within a single night. This trend continued throughout the early half of June.

The battles seemed endless: when one creature was caught another resurfaced in its place. Some nights the sky would be so thick with Millers that black clouds would form within the plains. Summer would blend into summer, and the murderous spree would continue.

Now the clouds are fewer and fewer.

A very strange phenomenon occurs when a Miller Moth is crushed. You’d expect some ensuing train of entrails and yellowish smear but the reality is actually quite surprising. It was often that I’d lift my foot or whatever blunt force had accidently murdered these hooligans, and the carcass seemed to have disappeared completely. On many occasions I have searched fervently for a trace, with no avail. Often, small bits and pieces of the remains could be scavenged, rarely meeting the expected sum of limbs and appendages.

Mostly, all that remained was dust.

see you next time!