I. Knowing
I know I am different. I see others walking around without a thought or care, with no self-awareness or knowledge of who they are or what they are doing, lost in their own little world. But I am aware. I see, feel, hear, and smell my surroundings, yet I am separate from it.
I don’t think I’m supposed to know these things, but somehow I do.
A face peers down at me from the broad expanse above. “Oh, what a disgusting creature,” says a voice. “I hate caterpillars.”
A boot descends toward me—hideous and terrifying—and everything goes black.
II. Worth
I spot the little fuzzy brown lump wriggling across the porch. “Oh, what a disgusting creature,” I say. “I hate caterpillars.” I lift my boot, but before I can crush it under my heel, I stop. Yuck, that will make a squishy mess.
I pause a moment to think. Who am I to decide this lowly lifeform isn’t worthy to walk the same ground, breathe the same air, or live a full life as I do? Aren’t we all part of God’s creation?
Gently, I pick up the caterpillar, walk to a nearby bush, and release it into the leaves.
Two 100-word mirrored stories, a diptych.
