Monday, November 02, 2009

Real Glasswings

The far wall of this room is glass looking out onto the marsh. Potted plants rest on tables going out to either side past the curvature of the earth. Clear-winged butterflies alight from bloom to bloom. Their wings allow the sunbeam's pass as well as any crystal; transparent as ice.

Your shoe crunches at your step. A shattered butterfly's entrails glisten over shards of wings. The wings of its brethren are the same: glass. The stems of the potted plants wear thin gashes where the edges of those wings glanced them. The butterflies shy from you as normal butterflies would; but a mass collision would give the ordeal of a thousand cuts. To death or not.


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