Pagemasters picture thingy

monothingy

A small moth chances some sort of offbeat, virtually one way ESP conversation with a small boy out looking to net tadpoles...

“The water flows and flows, trickling down gutters, ponds and streams.
Draining and flowing to imaginary places, thoughts and dreams.”

Washing the skin of lands, tugging at feet and hands that
tilt forward awkwardly scarcely able to hold a drop
yet hear I sit upon this prop.

I thought I saw a snowdrops tear or perhaps sunbeams hugging ripples near;
Though it was just my mind’s eye playing tricks- in triple- dear.
 


Do you know where the thought of pixy dust comes from? “This incessant rain” replied the boy.
No not the incessant rain... it comes from those night flying moths
the ones that beat their hearts relentlessly against little glowing beacons
until their stuffing falls out like tinsel... poor senseless creatures.

 
Not a smidgen of warmth is to be had in a night  time beacon  that won’t take your wings clean off, it’s so unfortunate they don’t play in the sunshine, perhaps they fear anyone seeing them in the daylight, though I wouldn’t know why, it’s not as if many creatures notice such insignificant creatures as moths... So I beg to ask... Whatever made you pause and offer a moment of your time? Of course there is no need to answer that; any questions I might ask of you as a matter of fact, it’s not uncommon for me to ask far too much of any stranger, without ever waiting on any of the answers, its all quite one way at times.

Perhaps I like to formulate my own answers that please me? Yes that could well be a reason, perhaps not, but it’s a reason, I lack reason but where there is a lack thereof, there is formulation, thus filling in all those things that might be missing, you know, filling the void that is wilderness. 
I should warn you I can talk and talk and talk until quite soon you will be so tired of even the thought of me and my thoughts..

Agh snow melt its sooo so desolate!  Everything burnt to a mushy mess with cold, burned with cold, who ever heard of such a thing? It seems illogical don’t you think?

Might I ask your name? I always wonder at names, like places or states of mind and dreams. I watched a little girl once, I don’t think she ever noticed me, she made me wonder. You see she knelt down and she plucked every petal off of a daisy bush and she sang and she plucked until all that was left were little round eyes, bruised ones at that. She made me wonder, I wondered if she ever considered that little winged insects might need a landing strip and then I wondered if she knew each petal is like a finger gesturing over here over here come here my arms are open for you. But I don’t think she was wondering about insects, it seemed her songs were much bigger than little insects, though I’m sure they were far more pesky.

 Bother! I don’t know why I persist in trying to get a drink here I’m sure it’s far too cold, cold enough to make my wings quiver in a manner that might challenge a humming bird in supersonic  superseded suspended animation, not to mention the possibility of runoff pesticides that would spell ahoh; bent legs and uncoiled tongue. It’s so funny the straight bits curl and the curly bits go straight when creatures like me die...  Oh, I am sorry, I didn’t mean to joke about something that’s generally very serious business. I will try to behave a little more toward light, light as flight or the day’s prettiness, besides soppy soppy it is pretty.

   
What I wouldn’t do for blue bells or daisies or peach blossoms or apple tree pink blush fluff; but it matters not what I do, their time is not set by me but rather my time by them.

Criewry settled her chin to her forehands with a silent sigh and a still present soft smile while the air was left to the sounds of trickling water once again with the chirps of sleepy grasshoppers interrupted by the punctuations of small green frogs blending all the choir birds songs of spring in hop, step, jump, the pierce of sodden soil, of life in general.

 

Reviews

[J. Marc]

Amazing piece of writing! This is something, I must admit, I have difficulty doing, and hence all my reverence to you! I also have read not without smiling, the comments of Ed Hart. My favorite passage: “Perhaps I like to formulate my own answers that please me? Yes that could well be a reason, perhaps not, but it’s a reason, I lack reason but where there is a lack thereof, there is formulation, thus filling in all those things that might be missing, you know, filling the void that is wilderness. “ Yes, it takes a lot of imagination and also precision to write this!

[Emily B]

I loved this

I want to read more of these thoughts. Get swept away by your thoughts of moths and daisys and little girls.

[SilentDream]

Loved the creativity and ponderings... where the moth says pixie dust comes from and
observing the little girl who didn't realize that insects need "landing strips"... Excellent :)

Pen on!
~SilentDream

[Kevin Vorshak]

This is a really creative story, Touchstone. The thoughts of a moth viewing a little boy, conversing in its own way, with its own views. I really liked the poetry that you start this out with. I don't recall seeing this on the Pagemasters site, but it seems to me that you did it justice. It doesn't hurt that I'm more comfortable with stories and I am with poetry. Still, I found this very entertaining. Good job!

[Ed Hart]

you possess, i think, except perhaps for several of my former wives, the most 'female' mind i have ever encountered... it's sort of unfocused and earthy, but takes in more than most men, with their tight minds, can encompass...ed