Cheshire Grin

Who, who calls the grass blue? Who see’s being whole, taboo? Who counts three as two?

In the depth of the soil, but above the sky, way too high, yet low in the world below. There, there it is.

A tree of glass stood still amongst flowers abloom. Why did it stand still? It was spun from starlight, forming the thickest of glass. No one knew how it came about, but I. Within the trunk of glass moved light bulbs of red, purple and blue. If the tree had an idea, those colours would pass through the tips of the glass branches. In turn I would take a munch of the hard leaf that twinkled with said idea and it would pass into me. Even in my current form I could eat such a unique leaf. I knew of every idea and all the happenings, but none had begun- not yet anyway. Today would be the day, for something was different.

Not a squirrel stirred nor stream flowed. Not a glass leaf formed, not once this day.

In fact it was odd, quite odd that the sun had not risen today.

Then in a second the tree started rumbling and shone alight. It shook like it boiled from the ground, and I thought something was quite not right. An idea was brewing and forming. This one idea was quite different. It burst forth from out of a branch, splattering colours here, there, everywhere. The colours merged and spun and bounced and erratically shook with a life of its own. That is what happened, until something of fluff formed below. It slithered and unravelled and stood on its toes and from its mouth, it uttered a sound. A sound quite unlike my own… ‘Meow.’

Fur unravelled and changed to stripe, and from the leaf I perched on, I was met with a set of gold eyes.

‘Who are you?’

‘Meow,’ I fluttered and sat on it’s nose.

I said, “Speak!” but the creature blinked with not so much as a sound.

I flapped my wings, once, twice, but still nothing from the creature.

A noise began to stir from its throat. But before it let out a sound, the sun rose in reverse. From the leaf I had once before sat on sprung a new flower. Soon a group of them sung in speech not becoming of nature. They sang words and if that was not enough, a duplicate of I flew amongst them with bread for wings, and if I weren’t mistaken, they smiled. I flew off the creature, into the ferns. My wings gave way, my stomach expanded, dare I think it, but it was true. I was a caterpillar once more.

The creature had witnessed my backwards change and said,‘I am Chesha. I know it to be so. Go left, or right, or wherever. Nothing will make much sense, or it will, or it won’t! Goodbye’.

And just like that, he was gone and so I sat, confused, above a mushroom, listening to the flowers’ song.

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