Leafbound

By Sophia Hansen

Laurva was hungry. So very hungry.

And alone.

Suffocating darkness encased her. She was completely sealed in. Instinct overruled her uncertainty, and the gloom diffused as she gnawed the walls.

Chomp. Chew. Gulp. Smack. Swallow. She emerged, surrounded by sickening sounds of others feeding.

I’m not alone. This awareness wasn’t comforting, but hunger drove her out. She crept into the murky grayness, jostling with the others, searching for food.

She latched onto a leaf with her mandibles. Mm-mm green! She chomped forward, squinting at vague forms around her. They moved with similar rhythm. Advance the rear. Extend the front. Eat everything in reach. Repeat.

Laurva fed until darkness overtook her blurry world. She nestled under a half-eaten leaf, hooking on with her back legs. Safely anchored and a full stomach. This is good. She smiled as she drifted to sleep, still chewing in her dreams.

Vibrations trembled down the branch, jiggling her awake. Laurva blinked rapidly at the morning light, waking to a voracious appetite. Must find more—eat more. Her need grew relentless. Foraging consumed her days, and hunger haunted her nights.

Finally, she was too stuffed to move.

What now? Laurva clung to a leaf, trying to process all she’d ingested.

Her flesh was uncontainable, bulging at each abdominal segment. A breeze wafted over her setae, sending waves of pain across the fine hairs. This hurts so much. But I need food. Is this all there is to life—unceasing hunger and excruciating pain?

Her head throbbed and she writhed in anguish. Suddenly, the skin between her antennae began to tear. Horrified at the rending, she held her breath.

It stopped nothing.

Section by section, outer membrane peeled away from soft flesh. Wind raked at her newly exposed skin. She shivered, shrinking from the rupturing layer. But as she shed, the pain began to recede. Laurva stepped out of the empty shell into new freedom, overcome with relief—and renewed hunger.

Weaving back and forth, she wriggled onto a new leaf. Mm! So good. She chomped eagerly, greedy in her renewed strength.

“Careful there.” A smooth voice interrupted. “You don’t want to reduce that bush to a stem, do you?”

Laurva froze. What was this? Sounds? Words? Something other than chomping?

Was this danger? Should she drop—or stand?

“You—” she swallowed a bit of leaf, “shouldn’t eat me. I won’t taste good. I might even make you sick.” She anchored her prolegs to the stem, drawing her front as high as she could.

“You don’t say.” The voice sounded amused at her warning.

“You’ll be sorry if you eat me. I… I mean it.”

“What bravery in such a tiny packet!” An unexpected wind breathed from the direction of the voice.

Was the voice laughing at her?

“Well, if you’re mocking me, I guess you’re not planning to eat me.” Laurva sniffed. “And if that’s the case, I have better things to do.”

“Actually, you do,” Voice answered, gently this time. “I wanted you to know that.”

The gusts quickened and Voice called from above. “Save some of the bush for later.”

Hmph. Laurva returned to feeding, ignoring the prickle of uncertainty that burrowed in her gut. That Voice. What does it know? But… it was nice to talk. To be heard.

Laurva gorged, slept, and shed a few more times. She’d grown a lot, and each molt was more painful than the previous. She sighed at the familiar twinge of constricting skin. It was time.

Is this all there is to my life, a cycle of stuffing and pain? What did Voice mean—I have better things to do? Laurva dropped off the bush and shuffled away.

“…can’t do this anymore. I’ll bind my skin tight. I won’t split again.” Anchoring herself to a sturdy twig, she started to spin a cloak. “If I make it strong enough, I won’t have to.”

“Good plan, but wrong idea.”

“That you, Voice?” Laurva continued spinning.

“Voice? That’s the best you could come up with?” Voice chuckled, lighting upon Laurva’s twig.

“It’s not like you introduced yourself.” Laurva huffed.

“Allow me to make amends, Princess. I am M’Nark, your humble servant.”

“Well, M’nark, you mocked my beginnings, and you mock when I’m finished. All you do is make me question my existence. Now, when I’m quite sure my life has no value, have you come to seed my death with doubt? I’m full of pain, tired of these struggles, and quite prepared to die.”

“Nay, Princess. I’ve come neither to mock, nor to watch you die. I’m here to wait with you.”

“M’Nark, I am no princess, but you are the closest thing I have to a friend. You may wait as I finish my cloak.”

She encased herself painstakingly, weaving ’til she was wrapped up tight. She wouldn’t split again.

Laurva lost time—and then herself—across the rising and setting suns. But in every awareness, however fleeting, M’Nark was present.

Sense and consciousness coalesced, and the familiar pain of constraint gripped her once again. A sob escaped as she struggled to free herself. “I was… wrong.”

“You didn’t know,” M’Nark whispered.

The world spun as she wriggled furiously. “I’m sorry. I’m not quite myself.” Laurva staggered from her shroud, emerging with a last shake of her cloak as she stretched her—wings?

“But you are—now. Welcome to your reign, Fairy M’Nark.”

An ethereal creature fluttered before her, its gossamer wings shimmering full of oranges and yellows and reds. Laurva had never seen such beauty. She hadn’t seen anything but grays previously. This new vision was bursting with colors beyond imagining.

She struggled to form words. “M’Nark? What… How… Why?”

“You are our Monarch Fairy, charged to safeguard us from leaf to flight. But to tend us wisely, you need to know our struggle.”

“And now, I can know your delight,” Laurva said. “Let us fly!”

With a leap, she danced into the air, full of joy. Fully free.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Sophia Hansen is an organic writer—using no hormones, antibiotics, or pesticides in her writing unless absolutely convenient. She’s lived on a tiny island in Alaska, the bustling cities of New York and Boston, and now resides in the Southeast where she writes between fresh(ish) cups of coffee and slices of bacon. After 30+ years of marriage, seven children and numerous pets, Sophia can still fit into her high school earrings.

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