Butterfly Skin

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic


Based upon the poem " Catepillarus". First re-write.

Submitted: July 11, 2018

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Submitted: July 11, 2018

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Something rustles under the leaves. 

Quick and impetuous, the creature forms itself. In caverns of sulphorous flames, in the abode of demons and the damned, a fiery gulf readies itself to yawn at our feet.

 

I am stranded, there are no neighboring countries, no human faces, no human forms, no agonies of death, no fearful mystery in the loathsome banquet of dissolution, disillusion, and decay.

This night is soft and full of light, compromising my will to stay protected and silent in this darkness.

I hear a rustle among the leaves of fallen boa feather clothed trees grunting nightly; it sputters, spinning, shook down, in this falling of dripped foliage.  

Out there, I can see in the horizon , where the rocks piled upon one another forming a wall at the forests edge, a clever agent, re-wiring the connections from insect to angel.

I trudge out, into the field only to find this invisible visitation, devouring upon itself, at first glance.

 

Hearing mysterious untraceable foot-steps in the distance, I pause to consider this investigation, fatigued by my own curiosity; I hesitate the address of my discovery.

 

Yet, I pursue, revenging myself with tremendous disgust, upon that which I might find, one moment more as I become strange and troubled.

 

And, there it lay, undisturbed, twitching upon exposure, a caterpillar with long silken strings. What a radiant vessel,  but for my lightly stepping crescendo, its over-looking lamented torment  appeared to me with a hollow tone. 

 

Weaving its cocoon with a hook stick needle pointed loom, turning fabric outward from its womb,

giving birth to itself, I watch with an enraptured gaze, such radiant vivacity.

 

I walk away, pretending I cannot see; until the next morning when I awake.

 

Whence upon opening my window, to let the cool summer air vanquish the staleness of warmth, I become, greeted.

 

A darkly fluttering winged memory comes back, then speaks to me with a high pitch soft cupped-hand whsiper.

With the triumphant of skill it gobbles little pieces as it skims, twittering, like a graceless holiday, devouring the vacation of my mind.

 

This is what it said...

Image result for gif of butterfly eating skull

 

 

 

 


© Copyright 2018 Dr. Acula. All rights reserved.

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