Flash Fiction1

“Do you want to see the rest of my art work?” he asks her. “Yes.” She gets excited and follows him into the next room of the gallery. “Why do you show it in here?” She asks. “Because the light is better for my art in here. It might get destroyed if I hung it anywhere else.” The walls are covered in green foliage. She touches it and the leaves feel real. A lady bug leaps onto her arm. Its wings flutter open then it took flight. “The ladies love my work,” he says as he reaches for her arm. They follow the lady bug with their eyes until it lands on a flower on the opposite wall. “That one is gorgeous,” she said, pointing to the hyacinth. “I drew that one for you,” he says. He leed her to the flower and plucks it for her. “It looks nice in your hair.” He plants it behind her ear then gazes at her. “Your eyes, they’re violet too,” he says. And they are; all she can see now is a field of violets surrounding them. He stares back hard at the violets until they lift off their stalks and fly into a swarm of butterflies around them. These are my ladies, he says as he nods to the butterflies. They nod their heads back to him then bow to her. The two of them are standing in the middle of the field facing each other, hand in hand, all the butterflies bowing down to them, all around them. “Long live the queen,” they whistle. The flower had braided itself into a wreath on her head. He kneels before her too, all of them looking at her. She spins around to see them from all directions, but all she can see is violet butterflies, then violet, then she is violet. He dots her eyes with the paint brush and steps away to admire his work. “Perfect, my flower,” he says and turns to walk out of the gallery with the lady bug flying after him.

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