Experimental Prose? Prose Poem?
Butterfly Wing
Long dead colours gleam in the camera lens, powdered lines across a tattered wing. Flight no more than hairs quivering in the weak light, stitched together by a web of dust. There's nowhere to go, no breeze to tumble along, no petal to tremble upon, no spark to flit and fly; somehow... still beautiful in the shadows.
Red Stilettos
Her fingers wrinkle the air, older than they seem, no doubt there are many tricks to be revealed. Her short skirt flirts with the pavement. Heels stutter, but she just rolls her eyes. Teasing is a way of life, herself, them… him. She won’t wait on the shelf, not even now. Firmed, shaped, smothered behind lycra and nylon. She’ll go down fighting, red stilettos, bunions and all!