Pretty Butterfly
Donald stood by the side of the road watching the supply trucks go past. Their exhaust hung heavy in the cold February air, creating a miniature cloud that snaked back towards the hills as it followed the road. He really should not be at that place. His mother had warned him not to go near the front, threatened him sternly in fact. She had a reason: the frontline of a battle, of an entire war, was no place for a little boy.
But Donald was here all the same. Though he loved his mother, loved her very dearly, he possessed the same insatiable curiosity all little boys possess. So he was here, here to look at the loud, thundering machines and see the brave soldiers ready to fight the enemy. Who the enemy was he did not know, nor did he care. At his age boys do not care who the enemy is or why they are being fought. It is simply fighting, and all little boys are eager to see an actual representation of what they play in their backyards.
So now Donald walked along the road, following after the supply trucks. He trundled along with a steady pace, eager to see the things in this place. He was moving along as fast as he wished to, in no particular hurry to get much of anywhere. He was a happy boy, as all boys at that age are.
Suddenly something crossed Donald’s path. His eyes followed it, amazed at its sudden appearance. It was a butterfly. Its wings were a beautiful deep black color. Donald had never seen anything quite like it. Suddenly he felt compelled to chase after it. He could catch it. Then he would bring it home and show it to his mother. She would be so happy to receive such a beautiful thing.
Donald ran at the butterfly and tried to grab it. It flittered up out of his reach. Frustrated, he jumped up to try again. But it still eluded him, this time moving on down the road. Donald kept up his pursuit. He would claim this butterfly, it would be his.
So Donald kept up his chase. The butterfly always managed to keep just barely ahead of him. It would seem to taunt him at times by letting his fingers brush its wings. Soon Donald was so frustrated at his inability to grab the butterfly that he forgot everything around him.
What Donald was missing while he was intent on securing this beautiful insect was where he was going. He had crossed the road long ago and skirted the perimeter of the army camp a long while ago. Now his pursuit drew perilously close to the front lines, where the soldiers and the enemy spent their days watching each other, waiting for the other to display a weakness they could use to their advantage. It was a foul place. On either side were the foxholes, and in the middle was the dreaded wasteland where the mad could rush forward and be ended of their misery.
But Donald did not know all this. He was still concentrated on his butterfly. He nearly had it now. Soon it would be in his grasp and he could bring it back to his mother. Oh, how proud she would be of him. He could hear her even now. “Oh Donald, it’s so lovely! Thank you for bringing it for me! You’re such a good boy!”
A sudden crack of a sniper rifle ended those thoughts. Part of Donald’s head was sheared right off and lay on the rocks. He had time enough to let out a cry of pain. Then he fell upon the rocks, the warm breath never to enter his chest again. The soldiers upon his side saw him. They could not go for his body though. Upon that dread wasteland it must remain. The butterfly flittered down and landed on Donald’s back. It opened its wings wide to the sun, revealing a white pattern that resembled a sinister skull.
