They create real, live butterflies. |
A hush came over the room as the seamstresses started sewing, butterfly class not at all obsolete on State Planet Orion Nine, United Federation. Each perspicacious stitch led to the living, a life, a butterfly, wings lithe, delicate, beats stirring air, a once airborne moth creature ala natural selection’s rules, but the genesis here was a platinum needle and DNA thread culled from ovoid spores prolific on Nine, used with alacrity as white-masked seamstresses, all in powder blue raiment, rowed like tomato plants, (and said ladies, with a hint of God-power syndrome, thimble-pierced with the vision of an Orion hawk), patterned the stirring of being (butterfly) looping DNA thread into tiny organs, into cartilage, into delicate ribs networking the silky expanse that is the butterfly wing. The ladies, like maestros, darning not, but sewing true due to the assigned species (Pulsar-Cat Swallowtail), and one bony, redhead with glasses named Hannah remarked, “Oh, it is the butterfly of the day.” Hardly blinking from the glare of the overhead rectangular lights, and with the soft hum of the climate controls keeping room temperature at seventy four degrees, each seamstress had her own etui, needle sizes like drill bits but a lot more than the average set of bits. A plethora of needle rows, and color coded, too, because of biologic diversity. From flagellum to vein, each lady labored long, and with Nine pride, and with a conscientious and professional attitude, and with love. Ten o’clock found them all gathered in the break room, their work stations protected by clear drop shields, much like the Cone of Silence from Get Smart. While the good seamstresses of Nine sipped Nine O’clock Coffee or Orion Peach Tea, they put thoughts of creating butterflies aside, and with unbridled glee, gabbed about the latest episode of the soap opera, As Orion Turns. 40 Lines Writer’s Cramp Winner 7-10-16 |