[ WP ] Write from the perspective of a bug making the arduous journey across a parking lot .

She ’ d heard the stories. An unbelievable journey fraught with peril and danger was all it took, and the hero emerged bright and beautiful, changed for the better. 
 
 Well, this was her journey. 
 
 Perhaps the bitter twisting of fate that brought her away from her dainty home to this rocky, black threshold was meant for that purpose. To gift her a journey, proffer shape to her future. A new shape. 
 
 *About time, * she thought, remembering those sorrow-filled days when each of her friends had left this solid earth. *I ’ ve been alone long enough. * 
 
 And so she set out. The trek was long and tiresome, the hot kiss of the ground and the cruel buffeting wind sapping moisture from her. And after a time, her stomach felt shriveled in hunger. She longed for a ripe leaf to munch on. 
 
 Huge looming objects moved around her at impossible speeds. She held onto hope that she wouldn ’ t cross their paths and end up squashed, her features painting this sordid landscape. But she had little control over that, and so she inched ever onward. 
 
 It wasn ’ t long before doubt ’ s black fingers gripped her heart. She ’ d come more than half way, yet the journey wasn ’ t close to done. Would she even finish her trek, or would her name be writ in dust among the lost and forgotten? Hard to guess. But that spark of hope in the transforming powers of a journey pushed her onward. Past rigid blocks. Over black and white-painted ground. Burning hot, seeking shelter under multi-hued objects in rest. Ever onward. 
 
 When finally she crossed to soft dirt once again, she half-collapsed in relief and burrowed in the moist ground, accepting its cool embrace. She quickly gave up that comfort and began munching on the closest blade of grass in desperate hunger. As she finished, she wiggled back and forth, up and down, probing the feel of her body with motion. Her journey was done, and fraught with danger it had certainly been. Surely the change would occur soon. So she waited in a dainty patch of flowers nearby. 
 
 And waited. 
 
 And beauty never emerged to juxtapose that bleak landscape she had just crossed. The wings never came. Her colors never shifted. 
 
 She was, it seemed, doomed to forever be a caterpillar.
