Cricket 468 did not see himself as just one of the swarm, one of the green tribe, one of the many of identical, undifferentiated crickets that worked, slept, and worked in the fields and woods around the city.
He saw himself as a free-thinker, a philosopher, a creature with critical views beyond those of the common herd, and it was probably this existential analysis that subliminally led him to his preferred retreat atop the clock tower of the university library, a rarified intellectual space that allowed him to contemplate without let or hindrance why he felt himself different, special, perhaps Chosen.
From his lofty perch, basking in the warmth of the sun, he studied the rest of the world, struggling to make sense of it all, wondering at the foolishness of it all. Should he, he wondered, talk to the swarm, persuade it there is a better path. Could he, he wondered, don the robes of Messiah, lead the others to a promised land.
On a nearby spire sat two crows. Said Crow 1, “That cricket, good enough to eat?”
Said Crow 2, “I reckon. Let’s have him.”
And so they did.
This written for the latest 200 word challenge from Sunday Photo Fiction.