The woman with no face goes butterfly hunting
The woman with no face goes butterfly hunting in a sea of dead grass – seared blades, muddy vegetation, an angry brown smear where the sky should have been. She’s brought her shimmery, green net, which once reminded her of fireflies, the way they blink and fade. She won’t harm the butterflies, won’t pin them under glass like her father and grandfather did. She only wants to get close to their delicate antennae, thin as a whisper, their transparent wings. She longs for an impossible burst of color to remind her of what used to be. Although she lacks eyes, she can still make out gold russet streaks in the darkness, distant fireworks. She wishes she had something to entice a butterfly – honey or a rose – but flowers disappeared long ago and the bees were poisoned in their hives. Nothing grows in sunbaked grass, not even weeds. The woman with no face lacks eyes to see a butterfly but she hopes if she stands very still she might feel one fluttering near her lashes, might hear the faint rustling of nonexistent wind. She believes insects will survive on earth no matter what and hopes that means butterflies, not just crawling bugs like roaches and earwigs. When she still had a face and a butterfly flitted by, she would smile and watch, then forget all about it, immersed in the next pretty thing. It is night now. It is always night and butterflies might be sleeping, hiding in the tall, dead grass. She’s used up her wishes, but if there was one more left, she would . . . Ah, you’re thinking she would wish to see again, to watch a butterfly one more time, its orange/yellow/black patterns, how it flies to keep warm. You’re thinking this is an eco-story about a post-human dystopia where nature has been degraded into an unrecognizable wasteland. (Or, in non-academic terms, how people f******ked everything up). Perhaps you’re wondering how this world came to be. Nuclear warfare? Virus? A final climate disaster? You’re wondering if the narrator did the right thing by inserting their own voice into the piece – breaking the storyline, disrupting the mood. You’re thinking after you finish reading, you’ll pay some bills or go out for tacos or maybe find a field and search for butterflies yourself. Luck favors the diligent. Those butterflies – still here.
Beth Sherman has had more than 200 stories published in literary journals, including Flash Frog, Fictive Dream, Bending Genres and Smokelong Quarterly. Her work is featured in Best Microfiction 2024 and Best Small Fictions 2025. She’s also a multiple Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee. She can be reached on social media @bsherm36.