Fly On The Wall: Fairy Tales From A Misanthropic Universe, Vol. I Read Online Free PDF Page B

purgatory.
    Every year on this day,
the flower bringer contemplates the passing of the
years.
    Every year on this day the
flower bringer sighs at the immutability of everything and
everyone.
    Every day the flower
bringer realizes he has not changed.
    As years pass by and the
world turns, people predestined to repeat mistakes of yore live and
die.
    This year on this day, the
flower bringer wilts, destined to bring flowers no more. Her
resting place is now and will forever more be barren, a sole
sto ne its only marker. That stone too
shall crack, shall break, and disappear, as will the flower
bringer's too after.
    Eventually, they will
perish and be forgotten; nothing more thna typos in the play of the
universe.

20 – The Green
Moth
    Once upon a time, there
was a butterfly. The butterfly was very beautiful, so much so that
wherever she would fly, everyone and everything would turn to point
& stare, stunned by the sight of her. She was a smart butterfly
too, she lived a great many years without being hurt or eaten, no
mean feat for such a fragile fluttering speck.
    One day she came across a
large orchard. She had seen many orchards, but none as big or as
beautiful as this one. In it, there were flowers of every size,
shape, and color. There were blue flowers; there were red flowers.
There were big flowers; there were small flowers. There were
flowers that gave off an aroma so soothing, so sweet, and so
enchanting, that highways of bees buzzed to them in furious
columns; then there were those which did not smell, but instead
were among the most beautiful in the orchard. They had thousands
upon thousands of gossamer petals. Each petal was a different
color, each glowed with the iridescence of fish's scales beneath a
scintilla of sun, each beckoning the massing mellifera.
    There were some flowers
which were neither intoxicating nor beautiful, but they were
special in their own way. Some had thick stems which could be woven
together so as to build useful things. Others grew pungent healing
buds. Others still were plain, and small, they went unnoticed
easily; they were the most special of flowers; they could talk, and
they could think, indeed they could even feel. The butterfly had
never been happier, she knew she would remain in this orchard
forever. The magical fruit on the trees were rather good too,
supposedly they brought love, though none could fathom how. Some
said that this was the garden of Aphrodite, the others...well, not
many knew about the garden, so most had nothing to say at
all.
    The butterfly spent many
happy years in the orchard, learning what each flower was. Learning
how each bug behaved, ever curious, ever thirsting for knowledge
and wisdom. One day a great brown, moth the size of a fist, found
the orchard. Curiously, it flew mainly in the day, something most
unusual. Moths, the butterfly knew, only flew through daylight if
they were depressed. And indeed, so it was.
    The moth always worried
for he was nothing more than a moth. He hated that people hated him
because of that, it made him mad. Why could the wretched others
just not let him be? He had no harm in mind for them. Yet each time
they swatted, each time they yelled; they hated him. He surveyed
the great orchard from above, he saw its beauty and flew a few
inches lower, for he knew he could not belong among such elysian
bowers.
    The emerald butterfly
floated up to the moth breezily, she told him about the special,
and sacred, nature of everything in the orchard, and that sadness
was the sole thing prohibited therein. A nearby flower, one with a
fly upon its stem, swung lightly in the wind. Bizarrely the moth
was no longer sad, he did not know how such things were possible
but his burden was lightened, and he flew accordingly higher, many
feet so. The moth was entranced by the flying green shard, he could
not bear to be burdened so, not around such a perfect creature. A
pang of jealousy shot through the moth's wing veins.
    The moth and the butterfly
spent