For the very first time I was able to hear the subtle sound of the butterfly’s tiny feet thud softly against the paper-thin petal as it landed weightlessly on the petunia. The world was so quiet now that everyone was dead.
Ferocious bears, giant bugs, frog princes, and beautiful flowers that smell like pumpkins live in this land. They occupy the little cottage in the wood, the one where I live too.
I walked past gibbering madness, blank stares, hollow shells of men, and found the girl huddled in the corner. My diplomatic offer of flowers was met with a scream, a recoil, and a whisper: “They’re still alive, and I can hear their dying screams…”