25, female, Russian. Quiet Resident Evil fan and an amateur photographer. This is my photo tag. Welcome.
He was 10 that year when the wasps built their paper gray house on the blistered paint of the window frame. Soon the nest was a fist-sized lump of fiber, insects hurtling out to hunt the alley below like tiny helicopters buzzing the rotting contents of the dumpsters.
His father knocked the nest off with an ice hockey stick and then he went out, a bottle of kerosene in his hand. The boy followed him.
The nest had broken open. He came closer and saw what the gray paper had concealed.
The spiral birth factory, stepped terraces of the hatching cells, blind jaws of the unborn moving restlessly, the staged progress from egg to larva, near-wasp, wasp. A picture from his biology text-book.
His father poured the kerosene on it and struck a match.
They stayed there, the boy gripping his father’s hand, watching the bulging, writhing life at their feet. Scorched wasps wrenched and flipped on the asphalt.
Now he was 33 and this place somehow reminded him of the burnt wasps’ nest, hiding hideous creatures under thin paper layers soaked with kerosene. He sighed under the shemagh covering his face in symbolic attempt to protect himself from poisonous gas on the streets and checked his AKMS.
A screeching sound came from above making him shiver. He looked up. A monster, but this time his monster, prowled slowly across the building wall. It tasted the air, snake-like, and screeched again. From the neighboring buildings other monsters replied with the same sound, waiting for the orders.
Time to strike a match.
Mmm, gals? Chat?