There was once an old caterpillar who lived on a leaf that grew from a basswood tree, and one morning, he woke up on the ground. He rolled over, clumps of dirt clung to his setae, and he quickly shook them off. The sun beamed through the bony branches of trees above and between the stalks of grass that surrounded.
“Maybe I rolled off,” he thought. He squinted past the light, looking for his leaf, and once he had found the tree it grew from, he wormed through the stalks to see if the leaf was still there; It wasn’t. “Maybe the stem broke.” His heart skipped. The tree was barren, no leaves and no other caterpillars. Winter had come, and along with it, his friends all flew south, leaving him behind, again. He sat thinking what to do. “Another year alone, scavenging for food, and still not a butterfly.” Dragging himself across the hardened soil, he solemnly went into the unknown forest to find food.
Eventually, he came upon a field of dark, soft moss. There, he took a moment to catch himself, breathing slowly, before exploring his surroundings. He found he was atop a large rock. Half of it was connected to the ground he walked on now, but the other half formed a cliff, which was a dangerous height from the forest floor. The edge of the cliff wore a crown of leaves, which had survived the initial cold wave. He smiled, and his stomach growled at him. He slinked towards them, more than ready to eat his late breakfast.
He ate until he was too full to keep going. Gazing out over the drop-down, he saw a little creak running from under the rock, lined with shiny rocks and bright moss. It trickled nicely. A cold breeze blew past him, and images of the creek frozen haunted him. He pulled himself from the view and spotted a pair of abandoned butterfly wings resting on a nearby leaf. Royal blue with a black outline and spots, as if they had never been worn before.
“Butterfly wings?” He questioned, hurriedly crawling from leaf to leaf until he reached them. He searched for the owner as if they would scold him for even looking at the wings. “Do you think I shall wear them?” He asked himself once he was sure he was alone. “It would be nice to fly south with my friends.” He lifted the wings, letting the beams of sun swim through the thin wings, reflecting blue onto his tiny eyes. He swallowed and made up his mind, jamming the wings into his back. It stung, and opaque yellow blood oozed from the punctures. He felt the weight of them, and he calmed his breathing for a moment. Just then, the leaf he sat on bowed up and down, and only when it was still did the caterpillar turn to see a starling standing beside him. The starling proudly sported a coat of matted, grey feathers and a chipped beak.
The starling cocked its head at him.
“What are you?” It asked.
The caterpillar thought, “A butterfly, tell it you are a butterfly. I believe birds don’t eat butterflies, you know.” And just then, the bird sneezed into its wing as though to scoff at the caterpillar’s thoughts. It shook its wing out,
“S’cuse me.”
“Of course,” The caterpillar responded. Not knowing entirely how to act around the beast.
The starling was calm. “But it’s still a bird.” he thought. Scratching a little at the surface of the leaf.
“Won’t you answer my question?” The starling said.
“Yes, yes. Of course.” The caterpillar stiffened. “I am . . . a butterfly. See my wings?” His voice shook.
“Yes . . . but you’re green.” The starling looked away for a moment. “Ah! I think I know how to solve this. We’re both old anyways . . .” It licked its beak. The caterpillar’s eyes widened, and he backed up until he felt the edge of the leaf. “Well, you have wings, so use them!” It said, and the caterpillar tried. He fell, his wings catching against the wind. He thought to push against it, but he hadn’t any idea how. He writhed as best he could as he fell, but he just fell and fell.
The starling looked over the edge for a minute, its eyes growing dull. It spoke, “Not a butterfly, then . . . Oh well.”
And the starling went on, doing whatever it is that starlings do. And the caterpillar was never a butterfly.
Gunnar Whalen is a sophomore English major, Japanese minor at CCSU. They have been writing fiction for 3 years, starting in High School, and hopes to one day have a career in storytelling or translating. They are also transgender, and with their writing, hopes to show others that their minds are not so different from one another.