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encouraged by @pagesofcursive and spurred on by my own brainrot for my new characters, here’s a short story inspired by a combination of one word september prompts from @nosebleedclub 

the words were dead insects, spear, and hero, with cuckoo from here

The shrill cry of infants made it hard for Cuckoo to be heard. At least their cries drowned out the discomfort of the hoard in front of her. That afternoon, Cuckoo had been put in charge of seven children; whether they belonged to her parents or her aunts and uncles, she didn’t know. It didn’t really matter, at this point. They were all her responsibility to keep out of trouble — no getting hurt and no getting in the way. Cuckoo herself should have been looked after at the tender age of five and two thirds, but her unfortunate streak of independence had left her caring for the toddlers.

Sighing with too much world weariness, Cuckoo grabbed a dead beetle from the corner of the room. It was brittle and almost turning to dust in her fingers, its wings papery and shattered. It likely starved to death in a home that had barely enough food for the people living in it, let alone pests. She crammed a tiny twig into one of its claws, wrinkling her nose when the claw broke before trying the other. Unfazed by the sheer grime on the floor, she swept up a pile of dead ants behind the beetle armed with a spear. Directly across from the necromancer general and his hoard of undead soldiers, Cuckoo set up a dragonfly with only three wings. She outfitted the brave warrior with two spears, making it a much more helpful and willing toy combatant.

Cuckoo loosed a piercing whistle, drawing the attention of the smaller children, who were breaking from the listless staring and beginning to wander off. Just in time she began her tale, swooping up the opposing warriors in grimy fists.

“Once upon a time, there was a great but tragic hero facing off against an army that took all his red bean paste…”

Many years later...

Hands cradling the back of Cuckoo’s neck and propping up her head where she lay on the ground, Cuckoo gazed into the middle distance. Her attention shifted to staring up at the insects dancing with motes of sparks on the fire, riding the hot gusts of air. Her companions rested nearby, warmed by the fire. It was quiet, save for the occasional hoot of an owl or rustle of a lizard in grass. Flying near the hypnotic lick of flames, the bugs reminded her of evenings in the mud and fallen spices of her home.

Cuckoo wished she could say she missed it. Her home life was stifling, though, and her talents were wasted in that squalor. She missed the guarantee of love from a family, but what was love compared to glory.

On a quest of her own, fighting battles of her own, Cuckoo wondered. Was she now a hero with beetle wings and a weapon of leaves and twigs?