All that gold, shimmering brightly! The butterfly rushed to embrace it with all the arms he had. Landing among the yellow petals, he basked in their glow. Ah but the cold weather was drawing in and the butterfly feared for his tender, brilliant wings.
Looking down from the last flower in the garden, the butterfly saw a snail slide down the path. So cosy she looked in that shell, never buffeted by the wind. “You know,” the butterfly shouted down to her, “I could’ve accepted being a snail except… all your faces look the same! Whereas every little swirl and dot of colour on my wings is unique. Unique!”
The snail gazed up to see where the noise was coming from. Noticing the butterfly clinging feebly to the dying petals, she twirled her left horn, thoughtfully, then her right. “Hmm,” she murmured, to no one in particular, “poor creatures, those butterflies. All that flitting must be exhausting. And then the upkeep on those wings.” She sighed. “But I could live with all that, I suppose, if need be, except… they’re always dreaming that they’re philosophers! Ah now that I couldn’t abide.”
This piece of flash fiction was written for Friday Fictioneers: a story in 100 words prompted by a picture that Rochelle Wisoff-Fields posts every Wednesday. Here’s the link to the stories and this week’s picture is at the top of this post, copyright Janet Webb. I seem to be out of practice with the 100-word limit since this story strays a good deal beyond it. Sorry, Rochelle.