I was out looking for the perfect violet. I though I had found one, and had just picked it, it's stem sturdy and strong in my hands, when I found Her laying in a bed of fresh green aspen leaves, their round, slightly serrated edges framing the bright fallen-leaf copper of her curling hair. Her pale face peaked in a sharp little chin. Her long, pale lashes fell on round cheeks that shined with the matte glow of a fresh-fallen yellow apple.
And then I saw her wings.
Transparent as a dragonfly's, they draped gracefully over her narrow back, mingling with the aspen leaves. Each had an infinitely delicate vein system in crystalline-shimmering gold, and where the veins became to small to see, I couldn't really tell if her wing was there until a slight movement made the light refract off them in a golden sparkling rainbow.
I could have watched her sleeping forever, but, clumsy I, I stepped on the smallest of dry twigs, snapping it loudly.
Her eyes, enormous on her thin face, fluttered open, showing the deep blue of a cloudless autumn sky. Her mouth formed a perfect O of surprise as she stared at me.
I turned away, my twisted hands over my face. I knew how she would see me. I, gnarled as an old tree's root, for all I was only young. Dirt colored, the color of mud and mold and lichen, was I. Bent and crooked and ugly with a humped, wingless beetle-back. I knew better than to approach the beautiful ones, I should have kept to my haunts in the mud under the thorn bushes. I knew what would come next, the ridicule, the beatings, and I could never hit the beautiful ones back... she would send me back to my dismal thorn bush, and I would not dare come out to pick flowers again for a long time.
“That is a beautiful violet you hold. You must be very strong to have picked it.” Her voice was sweet and smooth as the first summer strawberry, light, airy, it suited her well... and I could sense no sarcasm, no malice.