Even at the tender age of ten, it was obvious to all who saw her that Kylie Johnson would grow into a beautiful woman. To those who knew her, a beautiful disposition would be added to the accolade.
The girl’s healthy, dark hair cascaded around a pear shaped face in gently waving pincers ending just below the chin. The lips were already becoming full, the teeth perfectly white and even.
Kylie’s eyes, an enchanting cornflower blue, stared unblinkingly at the clear, early summer sky as an occasional cotton-wool cloud eased its way sleepily across the expanse, reflecting in the glass-like iris.
She was positioned on her back in the warm grass of the meadow, white daises and yellow buttercups swaying in haphazard patterns in the whisper of a breeze. The red of an occasional poppy could also be noticed oscillating in its delicate majesty. A short distance from the town of Watford, in Hertfordshire, it seemed a million miles away from the rush and bustle of any township.
One of Kylie’s legs was outstretched, whilst the other bent at the knee causing the dress to fall back and expose the full extent of her flawless thigh.
Kylie had always loved this dress; it was her favourite. It fitted to her blossoming frame, ending an inch above the knee. The white of the dress was patterned with scores of butterflies; blue, red, purple, yellow, brown.
The small blue was the one she liked best — a Common Blue (Polyommatus Icarus)
She didn’t know its commom name, let alone the Latin
Didn’t need to, enough that it was pretty and she liked it.
As if to compliment the design, a real-life, Green Veined White (Oragala Daps), settled on the dress, its wings opening and closing in neutral mode, the antennae probing all directions.
As Kylie lay in the pleasant June warmth, an ugly, squat blowfly buzzed by. It first zig-zagged over her head to a point a few feet beyond and then returned as though retrieving something mislaid. Landing next to Kylie’s left eye, the ugly insect began to check its surroundings for any possible danger. Being satisfied, it walked jerkily over to the sweet wetness of the human eyeball. Another pause and then it walked onto the beautiful eye. Kylie didn’t bother to brush it away.
Dead people do not brush away flies.