Venomous Butterfly Novels & Stories

Even in daylight, the soul had found a new messenger. Eloise’s gaze locked onto the butterfly with hypnotic intensity. She could not look away. Its wings, once a shimmering velvet black edged in electric blue, began to quiver unnaturally. One by one, they detached and drifted downward like dying leaves, revealing a soft, pulsating body beneath. In seconds the delicate creature had transformed into something grotesque: a fat, glistening worm the length of her forearm, its pale, segmented flesh slick with viscous fluid. It writhed slowly against the bamboo wall, leaving a faint, iridescent trail behind it.

"Your biggest fears." "I am afraid of spiders," I say immediately. He blinks. Then the corner of his mouth moves. "I will remember that." The butterflies are absolutely present and I am filing them under professional observations. I am not swooning. I am not melting or smitten or lowkey-gone about a man I have known for forty-five minutes. I am not flustered by the charged and loaded-moment quality of standing this close to someone with this much rizz. I am simply standing here. Calmly. Like a person.