The Moths – by Gillian Britton

On the first morning of the moths there was very little rain. Other invaders had seemed formed of the rain, but the moths seeped in as if formed of stone or air. They appeared in the storm cellar, where Kepi was laying down bottles of the juice they had made from seaweed and nettles – surprisingly flavoursome. The moths were suddenly there, flapping ghosts of pale smoke grey that sent Kepi shrieking back up to the surface. When she took Meno down for a look – creeping quietly, peeking down from the top of the stairs – the moths had mostly shredded themselves on the coarse stone walls, leaving soft traces, like chalk markings. Black, wingless bodies covered the stone floor, some still writhing. But they died quickly …