One by one, with bow and arrow raised, he slew all the butterflies,
His arrows tearing sun-splashed paper wing of every hue.
And with one wing whole and one wing torn, they would softly
Spiral down - like petals that colour carpeted the ground.

The boy then gathered up his fallen foe and onto parchment
Fastened them, forever, with a pin; to display as if their beauty
Were a testament to him. Thus done, there could not be found
One flutter in the grass or sky and all was grey in hunter’s eye.

He had slain all the butterflies.

Then! Colour-flash in feathered wing and up again this hunter set
His sights. So delightful was the fresh new game, its proud and
Lively grace and simple song that trilled inside the ear and tempted
Chase, and the boy could see his parchment colour-filled again.

He sharpened arrows by the hour, then scoured every inch of ground
For heavy sticks that could be fashioned to his cause, and his arsenal of
War grew till no more branches could be found. Ready only then the boy
Selected his first prey; little bird all dancing feet and scarlet chest.

Inside a book he’d have it pressed.

Steady gaze, then one eye closed, as slowly he pulled back the arrow
In his bow. There grew familiar and faint hum of string infused with
Force to fire and all looked dire for the little bird. But it had heard this
Hum, as had each one in the forest when all the butterflies were slain.

And when arrow came it met not with its desired end, for off on
Wing the bird was sent by this now dreaded and distinctive sound.
Here the boy took aim again and missed again, and anger struck him deep
And hiss of arrow after arrow’s flight filled air and arced to ground.

His violence brought no victims down.

Late that night, dark heart and purpose, boy began his second strike, when
All his prey slept sweetly in the trees. He gathered stones along his way,
And as he looked could see the birds perched unmoving on the boughs and
All were merely shadows on a faint-lit sky. And by his hand about to die.

He struck with stones and in the dark’s confusion met his mark. Over and
Again pursuit unending. The bodies fell like fruit grown much too ripe,
And on the ground lay trembling. High above the frail young, made of only soft
White down, were resting -  weakened without warmth of mothers in the nest.

Now Death must take them to his breast.

What hunter could not gather up he left behind to waste and rot, and gleeful
Did the boy dash home amongst his ill-gained wealth of feathers fine. He
Plucked the feathers from the flesh and heartlessly discarded all the rest of
All the birds he’d murdered for his petty prize; a feast good only for the eyes.

After he had struck them dead, now with paste he stuck them down to paper –
All the feathers meant for freedom and for flight. He shut them secret, in a book
Which only he could find to look at, and thought his worth was proven by this
Collection he’d completed. But beauty is a virtue which, once stolen, is defeated.

The boy knew that he had cheated.

Story and artwork by Diantha, 2010
Links to photoshop tools and brushes can be found under the acknowledgements section