My hands present as aged and weary, my flesh paper-thin and melting like an image of Salvador Dali’s, with bones like soft honeycomb, where bees cheerfully settle in. Their wings frantically beat they seek nectar from the rhythm, the rhythm, hands slowly try itching them away, off my skin, away from an arm which they travel upwards, ignoring my slow decay.
The moth is drawn to the flame, curious though tentative he dances, he flits closer, the heat scorches – away, away! Although his wing is singed he cannot cease his wondering, in his mind he feels he must continue to draw closer, nearer, until he’s sizzling in a second, both his wings in devastatingly [...]
The Imaginative Little Caterpillar could transform into things! With the power of his mind he could draw forth his convoluted dreams. He’d always wanted to be a pink park ranger, or a charismatic carpenter, or an amazingly awesome astronaut who could explore here and there, or a ferocious fire-breathing fireman, these he could all transform [...]