TheButterflyArtist

ForrestAguirre
4905AscotLane#3
Madison,WI53711
Email:chromatic30@hotmail.com
WordCount:

Now, 200 years after The Crash, the world began to cobble itself back
together. Man had taken to the air a second time (or third if those eons old
parchments of Atlantis and Mu can be verified as authentic) but the
crystalline sphere surrounding the planet, protecting its surface from the
poison ether of space, was closed to penetration and exploration.
Connections, however, had been made and the words inter- and multinational were again entering common parlance, as the words nuclear
conflagration, genetic warfare and imperial capitalism had immediately
following the apocalypse known as The Crash. And, as has been typical of
this worlds history for time has proven the cyclical nature of human
endeavor and failure the Dark Continent lagged far behind the other lands
across the seas. Only the cities of Jannsburg, Kampala, Cairo and Ngome
housed any appreciable technology, and most of it, as one must suppose
from the battle-scarring of that immense continents central and western
regions, was military technology left over from countless campaigns and
battles, thrusts and counter-thrusts, a bloodbath of deluvian scale. Culture
in the Northern Countries sense was also lacking, except in these
sprawling metropoli. Proximity to key trade routes had, through
geographical fiat, destined growth and the accretion of civilization, though
in its rudest permutations, in these areas once again, as it was time and time
again.
The sun set over Ngome.
Clouds, still laden with the toxins of the last wars, billowed across the
sky from the southern sea.
The Ballroom

The girl in the smooth leather butterfly mask was his perfect
counterpoint: Long red curls to his straight, shoulder-length black locks;
confident, upright spine to his sagging shoulders; bright, full smile to his
thin, unemotive mouth. Beneath the sparkling wings he could make out her
finely-chiseled features, no doubt an inheritance from Roman invaders
generations ago.
A sullied half-skull mask shortened his long face, hid his high
cheekbones, darkened his green eyes to her blue. In all respects they
appeared a morphologically suitable couple: The butterfly and the skull; fire
and ice; she, he; life, death.
A dance together, introduced by the mans friend, Neville Whitaker,
confirmed his suspicions. She danced like the monsoon winsome, but with
authority. And like the tropical storms that brushed the coast that night,
there was a hint in the atmosphere of a far off whirlwind whipping the sea
into a froth, electricity in the air, though only a gentle rain fell on the
mansions rooftop. He felt that she led the dance, though his thin-fingered
hands pressed against her firm ribcage, against her warm palm.