Filthy soil kisses, little mushroom people slept dreaming — not of large cream eyes folded, cork-stopped inside bottle. The wings fluttered like tangled ribbon, pushed against the moon’s luminous glowing, drowning in light-air. Prisoner Queen of Moths learned to love the smooth glass, curved against her back as cuddling, the stories she told the echoing walls — an invisible ink diary.
A large bear bit the cork open, shatter-glass, shaking the Moth Queen free. Mushroom girls ooh-ed and aah-ed and “liked” her freedom, spored peacefully.
Not want of leave for glass, the Moth Queen ripped off her wings to make a dress, stuck shards into wing holes — each memory-piece had its place like windows. She bled out asleep and warm, hand clutched around the smallest shard.
Alyss 