If you read my last post, you saw that I wrote a short story where every line started with a different word. In direct contrast to that, here is a short story in which every line starts with the same word.

…

The season is summer. The weather is warm. The girl leaves her house, basket tucked into the crook of her elbow, and heads toward the field.

The girl reaches the field to find it full of wildflowers, humming with birds, teeming with bugs, full of life. The girl plops down and watches the butterfly.

The butterfly is soft and delicate. The butterfly flits back and forth, flower to flower, over and under and around again. The caterpillar, such a ground-bound thing, looks up at the butterfly and the girl could swear she hears its sigh. The caterpillar doesn’t know the butterfly is more than just a vain hope. The girl knows this, but she cannot speak caterpillar. The butterfly doesn’t think to tell the caterpillar. The butterfly keeps on flitting.

The girl sits in the warm, flower-filled field and watches. The butterfly floats over, dipping down by her face, and then floating back up into the air. The girl gasps, momentarily thrilled by the butterfly’s proximity, only to relax again at its retreat.

The wind blows softly. The light fades from pink to purple to blue. The moon begins to rise, floating slower than the butterfly, up into the sky. The girl, like the caterpillar, sighs.

The fireflies begin to glow. The fireflies follow the moon’s path upward, dancing higher and higher, twinkling brighter and brighter. The girl stands. The girl reaches out her hand and touches a firefly. The firefly pauses, briefly resting on her finger, before taking flight once more.

The girl begins to dance.