by Mathieu Cailler

Atop a cliff, he informed them of his home life and school bullying. He whimpered about his grandma’s passing. He confessed, again, to feeling more butterfly than human. Showing the monarchs the wings he’d built in shop class, the boy dove from the cliff and flew in a perfect figure eight, proving to the butterflies how well his wings worked, how easily he could keep up. “I know all about you,” he shouted, alighting on the cliff’s edge. He tried to lock eyes with each of them the way his teachers requested for school speeches. “Poisonous. Fast growers. The state insect of Texas, Minnesota, Idaho, Illinois, and Alabama. Your Latin name is Danaus plexippus which means sleepy transformation. I know about your great migration from the Rockies to the mountains of Mexico. I even know that a group of you is called a flutter. Please, can you take one more? I won’t be a problem.” The butterflies listened but eventually flitted away, a galaxy of bright orange twinkling across the sky. The boy wanted to follow them and fly behind, but he needed to gain their trust by listening. Next year, the boy thought, he would try again.

Mathieu Cailler is the author of seven books: a novel, two short story collections, two volumes of poetry, and two children’s titles. His stories, poems, and essays have appeared in over one hundred publications, including Wigleaf, The Saturday Evening Post, and the Los Angeles Times. He has received several prestigious awards, including a Pushcart Prize, a Short Story America Prize, and accolades from the Paris, Los Angeles, and New England Book Festivals.