Mosquito Story

By P.J. Reeves

For too long mosquitoes, mozzies for short, have been the subject of unjustified persecution, ridicule and scorn. They suffer the humiliation of being an evolutionary mistake, sent to torment and plague humans. Good for nothing, unwanted! Tainted by a reputation of being diseased, blood-sucking pests. This book seeks to rectify that misconception in an adventurous and humourous way. Every mozzie has a story to tell!
This unique and quirky story is full of life and death, love and hate, work and fun, ups and downs, following the day-to-day adventures of a mozzie community living next to a fish pond in a suburban front yard. This book will capture your imagination and redefine the readers’ preconceptions of mosquitoes. After reading the book, you will momentarily pause and reflect, prior to swatting the next mosquito that settles on your arm.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Sep 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781398490659

P.J. Reeves

Peter Reeves was born in Sydney and graduated from the University of Sydney with a degree in Engineering. He retired in 2017, after working as a civil engineer for 35 years. Peter has a passion for flying and a keen interest in nature, which led to the inspiration for this work. He and his wife, Robyn, have two children and live on the NSW Central Coast.

Book preview

About the Author

Peter Reeves was born in Sydney and graduated from the University of Sydney with a degree in Engineering. He retired in 2017, after working as a civil engineer for 35 years. Peter has a passion for flying and a keen interest in nature, which led to the inspiration for this work. He and his wife, Robyn, have two children and live on the NSW Central Coast.

Dedication

For the young entomologists of this world, including,

Kate and Chris,

Alexander and Amelia

Copyright Information ©

P.J. Reeves 2022

The right of P.J. Reeves to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398490642 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398490659 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2022

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

I would like to thank my mother, Judy, for editing the manuscript and to my wife, Robyn, for her valued input and support.

Chapter 1

Dusk Patrol

War was raging.

The horizon was dark and foreboding. The faint rumbling of distant thunder together with the occasional flickering of lightning through the thinning cloud cover marked the remnants of a passing storm. The blustery wind had now abated, leaving a slight sultry breeze and a lingering light drizzle. The lower temperature was a relief from the summer heat and humidity that persisted throughout the day. It was the middle of a particularly long and hot summer, and the afternoon thunderstorm was a welcome relief.

Spearing rays of strengthening sunshine were now highlighting small black dots lining the gently swaying paspalum stalks beside the fish pond.

From a distance, the twenty-one small black dots looked inconspicuous and featureless. One black dot, grasping a paspalum stalk, was slightly above the others and was intently surveying the horizon. He was obviously in command, the respected leader, the boss. Moving in closer, the small black dots took shape. The higher dot, the boss, was no longer young. The increasing light filtering through the garden cast a shadowy maze across his craggy face but couldn’t hide the glint of determination and strength of purpose in his wings as they opened and closed slowly as he pondered his next move.

The prize-winning garden was overgrown and neglected. There was a silent battle raging between the fading beauty of the flowering plants and the noxious weeds. The weeds were winning, the flowering gardenias, azaleas and roses yielding to the onslaught of the new, uninvited, invaders. A manicured hedge that lined the front boundary now looked like a distressed porcupine after a fierce fight, with branches sticking out everywhere like broken bones. The family dog had pushed a ragged hole through the hedge to terrorise the local postman and other passing, unsuspecting victims, usually school kids on bicycles.

A fishpond with trickling water cascade was once the centre piece of the garden, the clear clean water coloured by a kaleidoscope of flowering waterlilies making a colourful feature surrounded by neatly manicured lawns. Now, the bright, clear water had been replaced by a dark, inky tinge with a stagnant odour. A ripple on the surface showed life. A goldfish broke the surface and gasped for air.

The overgrown paspalum stalks stood like silent sentinels over the pond, swaying in the gentle afternoon breeze. The sticky paspalum seeds spread out just above their heads of the little black dots lining the stalks. Another line of five black dots peppered the next paspalum stalk, and the next and the next. Four stalks, with five dots on each, one under the other, equidistant, in regimental line, were well drilled and disciplined, ready: Twenty dots in total.

The single dot on the nearest stalk, perched higher than the rest, was tense and still. Meticulously surveying the surrounds from his high vantage point and listening intensely, Monty, the consummate leader, stared into the distance. He had done this many times.

The other black dots looked up at him. Waiting…Waiting…Waiting for the order to depart on the next mission.

The fading drizzle danced on the cool waters of the pond, reflecting the sun’s rays that emerged from behind the cloud in a dazzling display of light. The last of the raindrops ran down the paspalum stalks past the black dots. The strengthening rays of sunlight fell on the crests and valleys on the leader’s forehead. His eyes had long lost their youthful sparkle and were masked with wrinkles from squinting into too many sunsets. They were tired but still surprising alert. There was a hint of a wispy moustache above his sun-cracked lips, his eyebrows bushy and white and his grey hair thinning. The fearsome stinger was slightly bent from too many deadly duals, and his wings had lost their youthful lustre, becoming opaque and slightly tattered around the edges, an irrefutable sign of age. Of…survival. Of…courage.

The leader was focused, listening intently, his body surprisingly sculptured and muscular despite his aging years. Not long now, lads, he barked in a strong, stern voice, which commanded instant attention and respect.

The black dots were silent, apprehensive, waiting for the order. A cascade of colour reflected off their youthful shimmering wings. From a distance, the black dots looked the same, but, moving in closer, they presented distinctive features. They were all individuals. Some were thin, some slightly plumper, some short and some tall. They shared the defiant look of youth in their eyes, strong and confident. Their bodies young and supple, their eyes wide and expectant, with a slight tinge of fear. Their wings bright and unmarked, their stingers straight and sharp.

The twenty young male mosquitoes, mozzies for short, were waiting patiently for the command to take to the hostile skies and onward to the fate of the unknown pending battle. Oh, to be young again! thought the leader, remembering that it was not so long ago that he was in their place, fresh-faced and eager.

They resembled a squadron of fighter pilots, poised to ‘scramble’ on the next mission, strong, defiant and keen with a sense of purpose but also anxious and apprehensive, fluttering their wings in nervous tension. This annoyed the leader immensely. It displayed a lack of discipline.

Wings Attention! he firmly ordered, glancing over his shoulder.

A busy bee, pollen sacks full, flew past with a sullen preoccupied look on its face.

Lazy, good for nothing mozzies, the bee buzzed. Why don’t you get a real job?

The bee tauntingly looked over his shoulder as he flew past. This prickled the young mozzies. Their faces tightened in anger. They wanted to encourage the bee on its way with a few quick jabs with their sharp stingers.

Call that a stinger! the bee mocked pointing at their obviously small, inferior stingers. This is a stinger! he incited as he proudly flicked what looked like a big black harpoon at the end of his black and yellow striped abdomen. The young mozzies angrily flicked their wings and muttered between themselves, seeking retribution. Pollen brain…!

Steady, lads. You know all bees are bullies, cautioned the mozzie leader to his agitated crew. You know bees are OCD! It’s from trying to find too many purple flowers!

Earlier that day, the ground was scorched by the unrelenting summer sun. Now the diminishing trickles across the ground carried the last of the leaf litter to some unknown destination. The passing southerly buster had left a clean, fresh smell of ozone lingering in the air. Lightning and thunder were fading, gone. The sun was sinking lower, its rays still surprisingly warm. This meant one thing: ideal flying conditions.

The pending patrol was Harrison and his mozzie peers’ first ‘dig’.

They waited for Mozzie Leader Monty’s signal. Highly respected in this small mozzie community, he was a born leader possessing a natural air of respect and command. A set of tarnished golden wings were pinned to his chest, and a tattered white scarf hung loosely around his neck. He was addressed as Sir, but behind his back, he was affectionately known as The Master, a term of endearment in acknowledgement of his great experience and survival skills.

Mozzie Leader Monty was again distracted by an increasing crescendo of noise rising from the vegetation surrounding the stagnant pond below. An incessant and growing BUZZ filled the air. The young female mozzies were agitated, restless and hungry. Female mozzies made a background buzzing sound as they fluttered their wings excitedly.

One older female mozzie stood out. She was slightly plump, with a full round soft face and eyes that twinkled and provided an air of comfort. Her hair was soft grey. She was the matriarch of the group. It was a wonder that her wings could carry her generous curves at all. It was said she bounced rather than flew. A set of polished ‘wings’ were proudly pinned to her chest, her name displayed in the middle, DAPHNE. She was held in high respect and despite her calm demeanour, she was strict. Her tongue could