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Tuesday 200 — #90


She flips on the kitchen light and stifles a scream.

How long has it been there? That moth above her kitchen sink. Its wings flattened out against the wall, looking more applique than insect.

Mottephobia. Ridiculous. Especially since it hadn’t crawled out of its cocoon until a dozen years ago, during a midnight viewing of Silence of the Lambs. Her college roommate Janene (who bore an uncanny resemblance to Jodi Foster) had double-dog dared her into a tab of midterm windowpane.

Slipping off her shoe to shoo it away, she notices its wings. Mossy green with meticulous markings. She wishes her paintings were half as intricate and wonders if she’s afraid of beauty.

“Please don’t hurt me,” a small voice squeaks.

She spins around. An empty doorway leads into the darkened dining room.


“I made a wrong turn. I’m sorry.” A delicate flutter of wings sends her flying into the dining room, her scream not stifled.

Pre-teen laughter rings out from beneath the dining room table. Her ten-year-old appears, giggles “Gotcha” and hands her the birthday email his godmother sent him last week.

“Auntie Janene wants to know if the lambs are still screaming.”

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