WHAT THE COCHINEALS ARE DREAMING: Original short story and photography by Michel Camacaro

The ladybug drowned, dreamed under its spots with stories to tell. Unconscious of the furtive lens that watched her, at dawn, in her green bed.

He thought if the words had meaning or if the meanings were condensed in words, when the click of the camera disturbed him. A shrill crunch that he could not define, but that brought him the image of a distant thunder, rumbling over a field of spikenards in bloom.

Then, he thought that that sound must have a word, something grandiloquent, perhaps thunderous, he thought as he stretched - Maybe he could call him a cracodeador - but this word did not enclose all the experience he felt when he heard it.

It opened its wings to the cold wind of the morning and it was when it was said - Wake up! - but immediately discarded it, because it did not smell of fields, nor did it give him a feeling of humidity and happiness.

When he looked up, he saw the golden rays of the sun in the sky and then found the name of that sound that awakened him from his lethargy, from that moment he would call it evocative.

So it was that from that day among the ladybugs the creaking of a camera had a new name and urged them to fly among the spikenards looking for a thunder at dawn.