Never Loved

Samantha never truly felt loved by her parents. Those are supposed to be the 2 people who really care about you. She always thought that her parents never loved her. Every since she was a little girl she has felt this. Samantha has long sandy brown hair. She would hear her mother look and admire all of the little girls who had long black hair. She would never look at her and tell her that she loved her hair too. Her mother would say how pretty the other little girls were but would never say it to her. That always made her feel less pretty and more ugly.

Now that Samantha is older she still feels the same way about herself and her parents. She is now 14 years old. She is now going to high school. It’s very hard for her to do well in school because, she doesn’t understand that much. Her best friend Rain is always trying to help her. Samantha’s father has always admired Rain and thinks that she is very smart. He always says he wishes Samantha was that smart.

Her parents are always telling her that she should be more like Rain. That just makes her feel even worse. It makes her feel like they are just calling her dumb. That really hurts her feelings. It’s not her fault that she doesn’t do that great in school. She really does try her best.

One day she is just sitting up in her room thinking. Why should she have to live somewhere that she is obviously not wanted? Why don’t they just let Rain be their daughter, they like her more anyways. It is that day that she decides that she is going to leave and be out in her own. That night after her parents go to sleep, she packs all of her things and leaves out of the back door. She has no idea where she is going but she is not staying there. Samantha doesn’t even tell Rain what she is doing.

She walks for miles and miles until she has no idea where she is going or where she is. There is a sign up ahead and she decides to go check it out. When she gets close enough she can see that it says Yellowstone National Park.  How did I get here she wonders? This park is like a billion miles away from her house. She decides that she might as well go and check it out.

Yellowstone National Park is a very beautiful and wonderful park. There are a lot of thing to go and discover. There are a lot of enormous trees, plants, and flowers to take pictures of. But, there are a lot of things to watch out for. There are lots of scary animals. There are bears, wolves, deer, and even bulls. There are the crazy geysers to watch out for. They can explode at any time. That is really scary. Yellowstone is also one big volcano. If it erupts, we all will die. Now tell me that is not scary.

Anyways, Samantha decided that she was going to go sit in the forest. Luckily she had grabbed some food out of the fridge, she was starving. She found a spot, sat down and started to eat. As she is sitting there, she is starting to really miss her parents.

Back at home her parents were worried sick. They had no idea where she could have went. They called Rain to see if maybe she had slept over there. Rain had no idea where she was. Her parent had no idea why she had done something like this. Rain came over to help think of some places to look. Rain couldn’t help but think of all of the times Samantha has told her that she didn’t feel that her parent loved her. She also told her how she didn’t feel like she belonged at her home. Rain told her parents all of this and they couldn’t believe it. Her parents started to feel really bad. They could see how Samantha could feel something like that. Her mother just began to cry.

While Samantha was just sitting there alone in the forest, she felt someone come up behind her. She got really scared. It was a woman. She asked her why Samantha was here. She said because she had no place to go. The woman took her back to her cabin. Her name was Sarah. She was staying there on a vacation away from home. Sarah asked Samantha what her name was. Samantha stayed with Sarah for a couple of days. By then Samantha had told Sarah the real reason she was there. Sarah felt really bad for her. She had once felt that way about her parents.

Sarah talked to Samantha. She told her that she knew that her parents really did love her. Samantha wanted to know how she could be so sure.  Sarah told Samantha her story. The next day Sarah was going home. Samantha had to decide if she wanted Sarah to take her back home or if she wanted to stay there. Samantha finally decided that she was going to go home. That day Sarah drove Samantha home.

When they pulled up to the front door, Samantha got out and ran up to the door. Sarah followed her. They knocked on the door. Samantha’s mother opened the door. She grabbed Samantha when she saw that it was her. She started to cry and so did Samantha. They went inside where her dad and Rain were waiting. They both ran to Samantha when they saw her.

Her parents apologized for making her feel the way she did. Samantha accepted their apology. She also said sorry for running away. Her and her parents both told each other how much they loved each other. They thanked Sarah for bringing Samantha home. That night Sarah and Rain both stayed for dinner. They all talked and laughed for hours. Samantha thought to herself, this is all she ever wanted. 

A Collection of Terms for Describing an Aging Grandparent

Toaster Oven: this is her main appliance, used for heating plain toast or toast with cheese or potatoes. Sometimes she cooks potatoes in the toaster oven, leaves them in for three hours on 350 degrees and whines that they don’t make potatoes like they used to when she filches out the hard, shriveled skins.

Linoleum: the kitchen floor is linoleum. A pale cream color with gray marks leftover from raising three boys and a husband and three daughters-in-law and six grandchildren who always gather in the kitchen. It’s supple and creased, like her face.

Ceiling: Her husband made the rich wooden beams that grid the ceiling before he died. She used to invite in the mailman and present it to cops, and they marveled at the worksmanship. She is easily made proud. My dad does woodwork too, and she brags about his talent to supermarket cashiers and family members.

Make-up: she cakes on foundation and turns her cheeks neon with blush, then weighs down her drooping lids with bright blue eyeshadow and dribbles mascara over her stumpy lashes. Her hair used to get done up with fluffy curls, so it resembled a beehive, but now she has resigned herself to a bun at the nape of her neck.

Model: her adjective for all the female grandchildren. I have a “gorgeous model figure,” my sister has a “lovely model face,” my cousins “stand like models” and “speak like models.” Every day she tells me I am beautiful.

Raisin Bran: the only cereal she eats. When she comes to our house for dinner or we go to restaurants, she mushes up her food with her fork so it looks like a crumb-cake topping, no matter what it was originally – fish, carrots, cookies. I think the Raisin Bran is the only food she does not crumble up.

Jewish: this is why she didn’t marry the Italian man she loved, but chose my granddad instead. She, and my family, expect me to marry Jewish, even if I have to do the same. A part of me, a part of me that I am disgusted by, wishes she won’t be around to see me turn my back on my heritage. If I decide to put love first.

White: the color her hair would be if she didn’t dye it, and the color of every piece of clothing she owns.

Ninety: her age. I hope it’s genetic.

Tender: the way my dad’s voice sounds when he asks her questions and she doesn’t know the answer. Questions like, “What year is it?”, “What was your grandmother’s name?”, “Do you remember which pills to take?”

Hearing Aids: we pool our money to buy them for exorbitant amounts of money, but still we end up repeating ourselves in higher and higher octaves when we talk to her.

Lip-Reading: we suspect that she can do so, learned from years of faulty hearing aids, I guess, but she never mentions it and pretends not to hear when we do.

Laugh: a comforting cackle is the best way I can describe it, or a sped-up, lilting hiccup. She laughs when her sons joke or when she didn’t hear what you said. “Do you like the peas, Grandma?” Laugh.

Ma: the name she is called by my dad and his brothers. I used to think it was nasally and jarring when they said it, but now I think that maybe it’s perfect.

House: five minutes from mine, where my dad grew up, where my uncles played, where my granddad built things in the garage, where my mom met her mother-in-law for the first time, where I go once a week to talk with her, even though I end up having the same conversation six times because she can’t remember what we talked about already.

I don't like butterflies anymore after writing all these...

Prisoner

            I wipe my brow and sigh, finally done with the last of the flowers. I gather the tools and planters together and gratefully pry off the ruddy work gloves. I sit a moment and look over the plants, admiring the colors. Plenty are bright orange, like our uniforms. I notice the twitch of wings on one of them, a butterfly has already started pollinating. It must have flown in over the wall and past the guards, from the outside. It could probably leave too, whenever. I give another sigh, then hoist the tool back to the shed.

Fashion Designer

            I am in the park again, and I don’t know why. Its no more inspiring than my studio. My eyes wander the gardens along the brick path. The air is thick with butterflies, some even land on me. I never understood the obsession over these bugs, ever since I was expected to adore them as a little girl. They’re black and big eyed beneath their gaudy wings, not pretty at all… Not unlike some of my competitors now that I think of it. Maybe a minimalist line, something honest…

Blind person

            A gentle feeling is on my hand, and six tiny legs perch on my knuckle. I don’t move at all, just feel little creature on me. I feel the faintest gusts on either side of it. Wings? I hear a sniffing and a wet nose nudges my hand, and the creature flies off. I shrug and pat Rufus, then take up my cane and leave the bench.

Child

            My sister runs up to me yelling. She shows me a jar with a butterfly inside it, and it crawls around. I take the jar and open the lid to let the butterfly out. She looks a little angry, but she likes to see it fly. So I clap my hands together, and open them to show her its crushed guts on my palm. She runs off crying to tell mom, the dumb tattletale.

Dying person

            My chest feels tight and soon I’m falling. I’d hoped it wouldn’t be in the woods, I liked these walks. Will they ever find me? I try to make calls for help but I don’t have any breath. Colorful wings land on my arm. I don’t take my eyes off of it. Certainly not what I had hoped for, but not a bad last sight.

Cat

What’s that? I don’t know, but it moves a lot! I pounce at it, but it flutters away. It thinks a tree can save it, but I climb it masterfully! But curses, I run out of branch! I let it fly off, having lost interest. I look about me and wonder how I get down. I must have assistance.

I call for the can-opener, and after far too long he appears. He looks at me clueless for a moment, then leaves. I call again and he returns quicker this time with a contraption he props against the tree. He climbs it and tries to help me, but he does not handle me properly and I give him the appropriate scratching. The can-opener makes a face at me and babbles something, climbing back down. I am left to myself, and before I can engineer a plan I must nap.

I am rudely awoken as two yellow skinned can-openers smelling of the slobbering menace arrive in a big red box. They also have a climbing contraption and use it to reach me. They grab me and scratch them as I might their yellow skinned hands are impervious, and I am carried down despite my protests. I am given to my can-opener and am brought back inside. He seems to have neglected his primary duties to me this night and I am left with the hard food.

Poet

I stare at the butterfly in the window planter. Graceful as they are I don’t dare put it to speech, too cliché.  But what if it were smashed…? Tragedy that such an innocent creature be cut down when it performs so sacred a duty! That is different. I rush off to fetch a hammer.

Shut-in

An intruder of the outside is in my lair. It crawls over my discarded chips bags and flutters about me, making me nervous. Who sent it, I wonder? No friend of mine, certainly! I snatch its wings and rush to the door as it squirms in my hand. I open the door swiftly, shielding my eyes from the awful sun and cast it forth back into the vile unknown. I shut the door and finally feel safe again.

Workaholic

I speak on my phone and pull my daughter behind. We were supposed to spend the day alone, but there is too much going on. We pass a garden and she chatters about something excitedly. I shush her and keep talking.

Alien

I take care not to damage the specimen and place it on the testing field. I observe it, measure it, record its behavior. Finally I hit the big red button with a sense of dread… But sweet success it does not resist the laser and is incinerated. I must be careful, for not a single life form must be able to withstand the invasion, so all must be accounted for.

The Butterflies

            Prisoner:

            I sat. I’d sat for most of my days for months and months. Like a dusty book on a goddamn shelf. Orange jumpsuit marking me as criminal. As a monster fit to be killed. They wanted to kill me. I know they wanted to kill me. Not enough of a threat, the judge said. Well you know how they responded to that? They shot him dead. Man who did has the cell next to me. That’s the real kicker. Wanted me dead and gets to see my face every day. That’s life for you though.

            The guards let us outside, did you know that? Well if you count outside as a yard of dirt and gravel fenced in by cement so tall you can’t see the barbed wire waiting for you at the top. But hell, it’s better than sitting in a cell all day. Today I was standing outside when a butterfly flew over us. You’d think a ‘hardened’ criminal such as myself wouldn’t notice that, right? But I did. Pretty little thing. Blue wings, flying around. Avoiding fists that flew at it and searching for a flower that we don’t have. And you know what? I was jealous of a fucking butterfly. Because it got to fly wherever it pleased. Me? I’m stuck. I’m stuck on dirt and gravel or a worn down cot, sleeping next to a man who wants me dead.

Fashion Designer:

            Yvonne ran around her studio with a kind of mania that so many critics labeled ‘genius’.  Well what kind of genius misplaces her sketchbook? She bought a new one today just for the new show she booked. She’d only made one sketch in it, not a tremendous one admittedly, and she was about to go out looking for inspiration. And now she couldn’t even- Oh! There it was. Resting carelessly on top of her fabric samples. How clumsy.

            Moving out to the deck, Yvonne flipped open to a new, blank slate. A bug hovered by her face and Yvonne lifted a carefully manicured hand to swat it away when she noticed it for real. It was a butterfly. She’d never seen one this close before. It was fluttering around…orange wings aglow like fire. And the pattern on the wings...it was like a crack of lightning. Inspiration so bold and so unstoppable that Yvonne’s hands started sketching the dress before she could even think. The new line came to mind. The butterfly collection.

A blind person:

            Matthew rested in bed. The familiar nothingness took over his mind. He hadn’t always been blind. Once he could see. He could see everything. And he loved everything. But in time he learned the beauty of sound. Of touch. All of his other senses came to light. And yes, if he could see again he’d want to. And he’d never take sight for granted again. But he knew it was nearly impossible. He felt spindly legs crawl on his face. Matthew knew better than to tense up and scare the bug off. He gingerly lifted a hand and let his fingers just brush over the thing. He felt dust coated wings and smiled. A butterfly had landed up him. He let it crawl onto his finger, each little leg tickling his flesh. And them, with a snap of it’s wings even Matthew couldn’t hear, it was gone.

A child:

            I am six years old and running everywhere. I hate sitting down. Hate being still. I want to be outside. In the grass, in the water, under the trees. When I am finally able to run outside, I go right to the backyard. I want to find a frog. Or a bug. Yes. I definitely want to find a bug. I lay on my back staring at the clouds and waiting. I am waiting for a bug to fly overhead. And the bug I find wasn’t what I was looking for. It’s a butterfly. My head tilts, my eyes widen. It’s kind of pretty, with yellow wings and all. Yes, it is definitely the prettiest bug I’ve ever seen. My hands stretch out, trying to grab it, but it’s too high. Too tall.  And it flies away, leaving me to look for frogs on my own.

A dying person:

            It’s too late, I’m afraid. I know it won’t be much longer. All my life I’ve feared death. But now that it’s coming closer, looming in the doorway…all I feel is peace. I want that closure. Everything must die. Even me. And that’s okay. I will be okay. Another life is waiting to take me. I turn over in the hospital bed and look to the window. A blue winged butterfly passes me by and I smile, lips turning up. I will be that butterfly. As of now I am simply a caterpillar. Getting ready to weave my cocoon. When I move on…then I will be a butterfly.

A cat:

            Lila had been swatting at dust bunnies for hours. And then she started meowing loudly at the door, and unrelenting plea to be freed. She wanted to play. And so finally she was let out to bound across green grass and attempt to sink her class into the flesh of unsuspecting birds. As she crawled, lowered and ready to pounce at any second, she did not find an unsuspecting bird. She saw an unsuspecting butterfly. A pretty, beautiful little thing. It’s flying though. It’s in the air, an open invitation to strike. Lila cocked her little grey head, confused. She got punished when she tore apart pretty things. But things in the air were hers to hunt. Without any other moment of hesitation, Lila leapt into the air, her claws piercing the thin wings.

A poet:

            I was dying of writer’s block. I was sure it would slowly kill me. One sentence was taking hours to compose…and even then it was pure garbage. So much paper had been laid to waste in the attempt to write one, single poem. The last one that would go my book. My lovely collection. But no words could travel fro my mind to my pen. The inkwell of inspiration was emptied and I had no way to refill it. Turning my head, I saw my roommate’s collection of dead bugs, hanging on the wall. My eyes flitted up to the butterfly. A simple monarch. Dead for the purpose of decoration. Slowly I felt the rusty gears in my mind creak and groan in protest. Once they’d finished whining they turned…slowly…slowly…and then picking up pace. A smile plastered itself on my face as pen drifted across paper.

A shut-in:

Katrina was sitting in the white walled room starting at the white tile floor in her white gown watching as the men in white uniforms slowly removed her white straight jacket. The window (double paned, bullet proof glass, you know) displayed the gorgeous day outside. Katrina looked away. She’d not set food outside since she was admitted into the asylum…one year ago? Two…? No…that couldn’t be right. It had been so much longer. Shaking her head, she stood up, stretching her arms for the first time that week. That taunting window let her see the world she was missing. Grass. Cement. Butterflies. A whole group of them. Flying, swirling around. Katrina’s hand gripped onto the sill, the cement hurting her gentle skin. Butterflies. They looked so harmless, didn’t they? She licked her lips. Well then. There must be something perfectly vile about them.

A workaholic:

Rushing to the car, Jane knew she had to get to work soon. It was early, sure, but she had endless things to do. She’s stay late too, she knew. She had too. She took a gulp of her black coffee to help replace what energy she could’ve had by sleeping in just a bit longer. Who needed sleep when they had caffeine though? Jane pulled out of the parking spot and starting driving towards the freeway. Once she was there she was able to zip past those stupid, lazy drivers who insisted on going exactly the speed limit. There was a gentle thud as something hit the windshield. Without looking to see what it was, Jane turned on the windshield wipers, only to realize that all they did was push the leave or bee or whatever against the windshield more. Probably killing it if it was the latter. It wasn’t a bee. It was a butterfly. Suddenly her miles per hour dropped lower as she saw the poor, beautiful creature crushed against the glass. It had been hurt when it hit the car. And then her careless determination to get to work just…killed it. Sighing, Jane turned the car around, knowing that there was a little boy at home who’d want to give it a proper funeral.

An alien:

            First step on earth: why is everything so much lighter here? I shake my heads. What an odd planet. Their people only have two legs? One heart? All of this…hair? How peculiar. And their animals…so gross. These cats and dogs they talk about. A winged creature passes me. Not one of these ‘birds’ I’ve read of. Not in the least. I look closer. Yellow patterns on those…wings. Multiple legs. Realization dawns and a blush crawls over my left head. A gasp comes out and I fall to this ever so odd earth. Who knew that the Humans bred such perfect imitations…of our dear Queen?

Of a Butterfly

a)    Prisoner

I don’t deserve that. I’m glad I’m not a butterfly because I don’t deserve wings. I’m not beautiful, and I’ve never felt more trapped. If I were a butterfly I could fly through the bars and into a new world. I’m an ugly caterpillar, but I’ll never get to transform and fly away.

b)   Fashion Designer

Butterfly patterns are so spring season. Oh my god. But if you’re a butterfly, it doesn’t matter! They wear the same thing day in and day out, and everyone still thinks they’re beautiful. What an epiphany; I wonder what it means. I have to get on that new design project. My boss says she wants something fresh and unexplored.

c)    Blind Person

For once, I’d like to see again. I miss the butterflies most of all. I used to catch them in-between my fingers like a cage. I’d take them into my room and watch them flutter around all night. So transcendent, free, saturated… I regret trapping the butterflies, because now I know how it feels to be locked in.

d)   Child

Butterfly, butterfly. Catch!! Oh no it got away. Don’t fly, little guy- I want to catch you! I just have to touch him. He’s so prettyyy. Maybe I can bring him to my room and let him fly around all he wants.

e)    Dying Person

That’s my only regret- not ever flying. Everything I ever did was safe. My desk job was safe, my lack of serious relationships was safe, my suburban residence was safe. It’s ironic that the last thing I’ll remember before the hospital was a bright rust butterfly, bobbing right outside my window.

f)     Cat

There she is. Bobbing before my paws. Unsuspecting my claws. I don’t have any flaws. You better watch out for the crunch of my jaws. My teeth are like saws. You’ll die as I knaw you, pesky air floater. My name is Poet the Cat, and you’re the tastiest thing I ever saw.

g)    Poet

Fluttering fiercely. No, lilting softly on a stream of silken flute. Like a forgotten summertime reverie, floating. Until the black angel of death overtakes our pure messenger, fallen like a lilac petal, into a sea of lost dreams. Metaphor of my life.

h)   Shut-In

Get it out! The outside world encroaches. Oh god, oh my god. It’s coming towards me. Leave, leave. It’s making me breathe harder; that’s awful for my health. Those things carry awful diseases. I can’t leave, if it makes me sick, I can’t go to a hospital. Don’t let it touch me, don’t let it touch me.

i)     Workaholic

That’s a nice butterfly. My girlfriend loves butterflies; I should take a picture for her. But I have this report to summarize by tomorrow night and who knows. It might take hours to perfect. And it must be perfect. And then I have that other project for next week. And I have to prepare that meeting for tuesday. Maybe I’ll call my girlfriend to tell her I don’t have time tonight. Calling would take too much time. Oh well, she’ll understand.

j)     Alien

Wheleikdn- aiel- shen- no- weeki- wol.

Translation: Oh no! A tiny fluttering creature! They may be about to swarm! It happens all the time back on my planet! I like the color purple but it hurts when they bite.

(Translation Debatable.)

Sage 

7-26-12

The Butterfly Effect

Prisoner

Nineteen forty-five in the concentration camp named Auschwitz. Years from now this camp would be named the worst camp ever during the holocaust. I would be alive to see it. I woke up one morning, that was a relief. It was awfully quiet. That was different. Usually, my kin and I heard gunshots, piercing screams, the thud of people falling on the ground. But today, it was quiet. “Pappa. Wake up! America is here.” My little granddaughter said to me. She was skin and bones, as was I. I think I was more bone than skin. Where as Stella was more skin than bone. She had broken at least four ribs and her big toe on her left foot. I would know, I used to be a doctor.

Stella left and I got out of bed. I walked outside but fell right on my head on the dirt ground. I guess no one noticed because there were others on the ground, too. My eyes were open and I could still feel and hear, so I knew I wasn’t dead. I watched as a small butterfly, brown and black land on my nose. I was already statue still so it flapped on my nostrils and the tingling of its antennas on my nose. I saw this as a sign. Butterflies meant resurrection. When the American soldier came over to me and crouched down, automatically spoon feeding me, I know I was no longer a prisoner, but a new me.

Fashion Designer
It was extremely not safe to say that I was not doing too well. I wanted to stomp my Mary Janes on the ground but that would mess up my heels. I could not think of an ideas for the new anklet that my best client wanted. I was walking back to the studio when a butterfly landed on my shoulder. My first thought was to scream but it’s blue mirror designed wings flapped and I saw the purple on the other side. Immediately I got an idea for the perfect anklet. It would have a indigo and baby blue butterfly in the center just like the one on my shoulder. Around it the anklet would be little yellow mirror designs to make it seem like a reflection. “Thank you.” I told the butterfly as it flew off of me.

A Blind Peron
I was being led by a kind woman in the train station. She was leading me to the post office across the street. I gripped her like an iron band. She guided me, I hoped, to the right direction. I was blind. Yes, like a bat. I could see very blurry things though. I was shuffling my feet because I didn’t want to take too why steps and bump into anything. I knew we made it outside when the hot air hit my face, the honking of the horns blasted in my ears and I could hear the clicking of me and the woman’s shoes. All of a sudden she yelled, “Stop.” I stood statue still and felt her release her my hand from my arm. “There’s a butterfly and you were about to step on.” I didn’t respond. I felt her crouch down and I looked down through blur to see her fuzzy body bend down. “Here, feel it.” The kind woman grabbed my hand and reached it out. My hand fell onto something rubbery and fuzzy. I couldn’t get enough of the feel. I used both my hands and touched the wings as it flapped on me. The woman moved my hand so that I felt the flickering of the antennas. “Wow.” I mumbled.


A Child
“Mommy. I want that one.” The little boy pointed his chubby finger at the little yellow and black butterfly. It looked magical. Days ago he had come here with Daddy and he was sure there was a worm in that tank. He didn’t see a way out so obviously the butterfly had magical powers. The little watched as the butterfly flew around flapping his wings. He plastered his face onto the glass and his widened as the butterfly landed on the leaf right in front of him. He got a look at the ugly fuzzy face, the huge eyes, the curled thing where it’s eyes nose should be and the ears sticking up. He turned back to his mommy and yelled, “nevermind!”

A Dying Person

“Doctor. Something is on my chest. I can’t reach it.” Sarah said. She lay in her bed waiting for an Angel to call her name and meet with God.

“It’s a butterfly, Mrs. White.” Her doctor said to her. The butterfly flew right onto her finger, which he lifted to her face to get a better look at. It was all blue with an outline of black. So beautiful, Sarah thought.

“What’s it doing here?” She asked.

The doctor shrugged. “It may be time, Mrs. White.”

“Time? How do you know?” Sarah looked down at the butterfly wondering how this thing was the symbol to her death.

“In many cultures, it is believed that the butterfly is associated with the soul. They think that when you see a butterfly it is carrying the soul of a person who is dead. This must be a new one and is coming to collect your soul. But that’s just a myth.” The doctor shrugged then left Sarah with the butterfly.

When she returned, the butterfly was gone, as was Sarah’s heartbeat.

A Cat
Sebastian jumped up on his back feet to catch the flapping orange winged things in his space. Every time he attempted for his paws to catch it, it would fly higher up. After a few last tries, Sebastian grew tired and slid down and rest his head on his arm. When he closed his eyes the butterfly on his moist nose. Sebastian opened one sleepy eye and then attempted to wack the butterfly. He only managed to hit his nose.

A Poet
I had travelled  places upon places for inspiration. Nothing spoke to me. Some how I had ended up at the Museum. I walked around and looked for it but nothing shone bright enough. Up on the third floor was the Life Cycle exhibit. When the elevator dinged I stepped out and found myself taking a short cut through the butterfly exhibit. I got my inspiration that day. It was from a butterfly. This butterfly wouldn’t move as much as the others but it didn’t seem to mind. It continued to eat off the leaf an occasionally looked around. I found myself intrigued by this butterfly. I sat in front of it and wrote how I thought this butterfly felt and what was thinking. Before I knew it, my work was in the Sunday Paper.

A Shut-In
I had been diagnosed with a an extreme phobia called Agoraphobia. In other words, I was afraid to leave the house. But that didn’t mean that I couldn’t bring the outside to me. Only the clean part of course. Downstairs I had an emporium of flowers and leaves and insects, mostly butterflies. I had a favorite butterfly. I named her Bee. She was all black except for one yellow line that went down each wing. When I went downstairs, Bee was missing. I searched high and low for her. Frustrated beyond belief I went back upstairs to see Bee on the window sill, outside. I love this butterfly with all my heart but the thought of going outside just to save her did not bode well with me. Essentially, I was terrified. But, Bee looked caught on the net of the window. I touched the door and it felt like a burn through my veins. I squeezed my eyes shut and opened the door. I peeked through one eye and found Bee. When I went to scoop her up, she flew away. Thus began me chasing Bee and Bee teaching me to get over my fear.

Workaholic
“You work too much.” Ray said to Cynthia
“No such thing.” Cynthia said behind her back.
“But really it is. You’re so into your life you didn’t even look at your neck today, did you?”
“No. Why would I?” She tapped away on her computer never peeking down at her neck.
“If I asked for a divorce would you stop typing?” Ray asked. Cynthia stopped typing.
“Of course.”
“Then look at your neck.” Cynthia looked into her husband’s and made sure he had no guilt or regret in them. When she was satisfied she look down at her neck. Around it was a long chain that held a Monarch butterfly whose ruby eyes twinkled up at her. “You know butterflies represent the soul. I would never leave you. You are my butterfly. Even though you hardly take your eyes off a screen of document.”
Cynthia smiled, the first time since the day started.

Alien
On Earth, Sabriajefkjuga took the appearance of a homeless man living on the streets. He didn’t mean to. The man was the closest thing to unconscious he could get. When Sabriajefkjuga was satisfied with his appearance. That was until a weird flapping contraption landing in his hair. He began to shake and swat at it until it landed on his nose. The insect and Sabriajefkjuga stared at eachother until he could hear the buzzing and he slapped his nose multiple times before running away like a crazy person.

All About Butterflies

Prisoner

There are twenty tick marks on the wall, but I don’t know what that means because I’ve stopped counting. I used to count everything – floor tiles, cells, crumbs of bread, the hairs on my arms. Now I don’t count as much as think. I think about how the guards shot Robertson yesterday. Me and him, we were the last ones. Robertson reminded me of my kid brother. Now it’s just me.

I think about Mariposa. Her name means butterfly. Mariposa and me were gonna get married. She begged me not to sign up for this war.

I don’t know where I am, but I know it’s in a wooded area and I know that my guards all wish they were anywhere else. None of us want to be here, but here we all are.

I gave Mariposa a butterfly necklace before I left. I told her that every time I saw one I’d picture her face. But here, there aren’t any butterflies for me to see.

Fashion Designer

            I told Greg that if the spring catalog had any butterfly prints in it, not only would he be fired, I would ensure that he never got another job. Harsh, I know, but when you’re in my position you’ve got to be. I can’t have Jones & Keegan Designs’ reputation soiled like an old shirt.

            I hate butterflies. Not the creatures, they’re kind of cute depending on what color their wings are, but the pattern. Ralph Lauren did butterflies last season and  almost sunk. Butterflies are too childish and cliché to amount to true fashion. Let the amateurs over at Old Navy handle them. Or the Children’s Place. I hate butterflies, and I hate kids. Perfect.

Blind Person

            On Saturday mornings my granddaughter takes me to the park and describes the butterflies for me. I used to paint them, the soaring wings, the fuzzy abdomens. But the cataracts have taken their toll, I guess.

            My son’s a doctor. I put him through medical school with my paintings. I was never famous, but I was appreciated. My son says that in ten years they’ll have a surgery for cataracts so people like me don’t lose their vision. People say it so nicely, “lose vision.” I tell people I’m goddamn blind, a cripple, a burden to my family, and that’s the truth.

            My granddaughter is talking now, talking about a butterfly that has blue iridescent wings and thin, spiraling antennae. I wish I could mix that blue. I wish I could trace those antennae with my eyes. I wish I knew what my granddaughter looked like.

Child

            Mrs. Brown said that we could draw anything we wanted to so I drew a butterfly because my mom always talks about how beautiful they are and when I grow up I’m going to be a person who talks about butterflies at the zoo. I don’t know what that person’s called but it doesn’t matter because when I become one I’ll just call myself a butterfly person because that sounds nice. Mrs. Brown gave me a star on my paper and said my drawing looked “lovely” and she liked the pink wings and then she turned around and then I ate a Reeses’ when she wasn’t looking, even though the dentist says that if I get anymore cavities I will be wearing grandma teeth at age 14.

Dying Person

            I suspect that I am dying, but no one will tell me. When I mention the chemotherapy the doctor sadly smiles, a curve so quick you can barely catch it as it flashes by. When I talk about the cancer my wife looks sad and says she has to run to the supermarket.

            I suspect I’m like a butterfly. They live for only two weeks, barely enough time to lay their eggs before they perish. Maybe in human years two weeks in equivalent to forty-seven years, barely enough time to watch your children graduate from high school, to teach them how to be good people. I think everyone is just waiting for the moment they all know is coming, but for some reason the butterflies are unaware of how eclipsed their time here is, and no one wants to tell me.

Cat

            I think I’m expected to catch the mice. The cookies that the girl feeds me are mouse-shaped. My toys are fluffy balls resembling mice. My blankets are covered with images of scampering rodents.

            But after you’ve had butterfly, you can’t go back to rodent. It’s so base, so uncultured. I tasted delicacy, and to go back now would be impossible. I can’t go back. I won’t.

            The wings of a butterfly are light and sweet, like the spun sugar the girl sometimes sneaks me when she gets home from carnivals. The body is salty and gummy, perfectly balancing the wings. Mice just taste like dirt.

            And of course, now that I’ve tasted the best, cat food is out of the question.

Poet

            Oh, what tender wings

            Flutter softly by,

            If only I

could be so light and free!

G-d, that sucks. I wrote that? Jesus. I told myself it wouldn’t be a good idea to flip through my high school poetry notebook. G-d.

Shut-In

Back in school I lived in a room at the top of the house, but now I live in the basement. Strangely, the basement feels more like home to me than the upstairs room ever did. My parents decorated that room for my sister, butterfly wallpaper and butterfly carpeting and a bright pink ceiling. They couldn’t bring themselves to redo it after my sister was stillborn. Then I came along, and none of my friends ever laid eyes on my room. In the basement, I’ve hung up pictures of metal bands and action movies.

I know my parents are waiting for me to get a job, but the basement life is just too good. I mean, I pay only the water bill. I get a home-cooked meal every night and I can watch TV as much as I want without having to foot the cable expenses. I even ordered HBO; my parents are completely oblivious.

Sure, I don’t go out, because then my parents would know that I have plenty of cash saved up from gambling. I count cards, which I think is a pretty handy skill. I haven’t practiced in a while though, because the only card deck in this house is pink with butterflies.

Workaholic

            The picture frame on my desk is one that Elise made me when she was in kindergarten: popsicle sticks glued sloppily together with big foam butterfly stickers on the corners. In the frame is a picture of Cathy and Elise and me, on Elise’s sixth birthday. I gave her a doll that had pop-up wings on her back so she could be a butterfly or a human. She squealed with delight and hugged me.

            Elise turned eighteen last week, and I gave her a doll with a butterfly-print dress. My little girl always loved butterflies. She smiled uneasily at my gift but beamed when her mother handed her a diamond bracelet.

            I’m here late tonight because my case is tomorrow. This case could be the biggest one of my career. Elise is starring in a play, but I know she understands why I can’t be there.

            I gaze at the butterfly frame. She grew up so fast.

Alien

            I sit perfectly still as the monster crawls, agonizingly slowly, up my tentacle. It’s small, with curled antennae that sail up and orange, black-veined wings that would be pretty if they weren’t deadly. They briefed us on these things in the Academy. One sting and I will die.

            Funny, because in the Academy they described the stingers as yellow and black, not orange and black. Yellow and orange are in the same color family though, so I can see how the mistake would be made.

            Johnson went to radio for help, so I’m here all by myself with the dastardly creature, awaiting my doom.

Nothing Special

Aidan was, by appearance, not anything special. His short blond hair was smooth but nearly untouched by any product – and seemingly a brush or comb- and his clothes were a bit worn down, though not old or haggard. Aidan was working at the restaurant, taking orders and passing them on. His coworkers looked tired and bored, but Aidan would always let a dimpled, crinkled grin climb over his boyish features.

So yes, by appearance he was nothing special. Walking back and forth as he took the orders and then stretched his long arms out to hand the order to one of the cooks. And when he was on break, Aidan would lift a cup of soda to his lips and shake his head, chuckling at his friends, scratching absently at his farmer’s tan.

The people who knew him thought of him as simple. Aidan was simply a good kid. He did well in school, always came in first or second in his track races – thank those damn long limbs he had – and was very much a part of school life; School newspaper, student council, Gay Straight Alliance, Latin Club. The kid was everywhere. So if you asked around people would say Aidan’s a good kid. Simple. Nothing special, but a good kid. He was a diligent worker, good for a laugh and a good listener. Nothing special, right?

Aidan had no odd habits. No bad streaks. No, he wasn’t perfect. Not even close. But sometimes there is beauty in blandness. It didn’t matter that half of the people who passed him would forget his face in minutes, or that his even his friends couldn’t describe him all too well. People found him endearing at best and too-good at worst. There was very little in between.


And Aidan was a boy of habit. Every day he came into the restaurant, double knotted his apron after slipping it over his head and started to brew the morning's first batch of coffee. He loved doing that. It reminded him of going to his grandfather's house. He'd clean up whatever had been missed last night and watch the other workers trail in absently. They were tired and grumpy. Aidan loved getting up early in the mornings. He was one of those 'strange' people who enjoyed work. He enjoyed the rush to get orders to the chef and watching people come in, eyes eager and hungry. And it wasn't like being cheerful didn't pay off. Aidan got the best tips out of all the workers. 

Filling what would be the last order of the day, Aidan handed it to the chef, who shook his head, gum pressed tightly between teeth too white to be real.

“I’m off duty. You can make a sandwich, can’t you?” he drawled out. Aidan clenched the piece of paper securely in his long fingers, nodding obediently.

“Yes, sir.”

The chef left and Aidan walked back over to the customer. The man had to be in his early twenties, his dark hair gelled to a state he must’ve assumed was perfection. And his cocky, if bored, grin was slipping away as he popped up the collar on his shirt.

“Our cook just took off for the evening, I’ll be right back with your order, sir,” Aidan explained before going over to the station.

The order was simple enough and then he’d be able to close up shop. The sandwich was assembled and put into the Panini press when Aidan heard a loud, metallic clang. Aidan leaned back to peer around the tile corner and saw Mr. Gelled Hair with his hands in the money tray of the cash register. Aidan’s hazel eyes met his glazed over brown ones and the older man’s muscles jumped as he pulled away, sprinting towards the exit.

It was as if the ref of a track meet had just fired the starting gun. There was no hesitation. All he could think about was how he and all of the other workers earned that money. How that was the support system for dozens of people and yet this man had the audacity to try and take it. Aidan leapt over the counter and took off after the man, his sprinting training kicking into gear. Of course the man was taller than Aidan and more muscled too and so his mind started to realize the potential risk as well. No matter. His fingers stretched out to grasp a fistful of cotton fabric, pulling the chase to a crashing halt inches before the doors.

Aidan pulled off his red apron and used it to wrap around the man’s hands, effectively binding him. He put the man in one of the chairs and called the police, snatching the money and walking back to the cash register, heart pounding in his chest as his adrenaline kick slowly wore off. The older man’s dopey expression wore off in seconds.

Word got out that Aidan stopped a robber. The whole town was a buzz. Aidan’s a good kid, they said.

Too bad he’s nothing special. 

Orange

Marie had been staring at the man with orange socks for about fifteen minutes. He was in a black tailored suit that looked like it was made for him, not even an inch out of proportion. His white shirt was wrinkle free except for the area by his neck that he must have tugged numerous because his tie must have been choking him. His tie. Oh goodness, his tie. The man’s tie was strange. It was orange. The tie was orange and it had purple around it that swirled in weird designs. Maria was sure that if she looked closely at that tie, she would see encrypted pictures and messages in it.
Constantly, this man shifted his position as if he sensed Marie’s piercings brown eyes boring into his head. He slumped back and continued tapping on his thirteen inch laptop. He sat up with his silver watch gripping his wrist while his fist held up his head. Or he would lean forward as if the screen on his laptop showed something worth phoning home for.
The man had his belongings scattered around him as if saying, “no space here. Find another seat.” His black briefcase was in the seat next to him. Every compartment was open even though there were no papers around him.
He wasn’t hard on the eyes either. His light brown hair was cropped on the sides and the back while the front was shaven just a little, like a semi-semi mohawk.
Then there was his socks. His socks were what made Marie’s eyebrow go up to her hairline. They were bright neon orange socks that went just a few inches up from his ankle. It made Marie wonder what guy wore these socks. Why would he own these socks? Marie watched as he thumped his brown shoes up and down frantically. She smiled.
He huffed air and then looked all around, never noticing her. Well, she was incognito. Her hair was covered by an unnecessary floppy hat. She had on a sundress that covered her entire body even though it was about ready to storm outside.
The man, Will Camden was looking for her. She watched as he began making a weird movement with his mouth as if sucking out air but trying to bring some of it back in. It was as if he were making a noise from that kid show about the platypus.
Will pulled out his phone. Marie was convinced this man loved color and pattern. His smartphone cover was a mixture or blue, green and yellow swirls and dots and stamps. He plastered the phone to his neck and continued tapping on his trackpad. “Yeah. I don’t think she’s coming. If she wants to make it big, she needs an agent and I can’t have my time wasted.” He paused. “No, you listen, Tom. I have things to do.” He stood up and packed his belongings then threw his bag around his shoulder. His orange socks disappeared. He practically stomped out of Marie’s view and she couldn’t help but laugh.
She stood and walked the opposite directions. She walked as fast as she could until SMACK! Will and Marie bumped right into each other. Marie hid her grin. She plastered on a shocked face and looked up. “Oh my gosh! I am so sorry.” She flipped off her sunglasses and looked up into Will’s eyes. “My apologies Mr. Camden.”
Will smiled a shy smile and clicked off his phone. “Marie. Thanks for joining. Did you just get here?”
No point on lying, she thought. “No I’ve been sitting down the table from you for the last half an hour or so. Just waiting for you to notice.” Will nodded, shyly looking around. “So let’s talk business.”
They walked back to the seats they were sitting in. Will sat across from her. He immediately pulled his laptop out. “So, since I’m your new agent and manager your old one sent me all your files.”
“Okay. Cool, cool.” She moved forward to get a better look at the screen of the laptop but Will hid it away from her. Her guess was he didn’t even realize he was doing it.
Shaking her head, Marie and Will discussed her future plans as an up and coming actress. Of course she noticed the constant nervousness Will had. He would tap his foot, fidget, and look around him as if someone were following him. She looked past that.

“Well. Thank you for the job, Will.” Marie stood and extended her arm out to Will. At first he looked at it. Then, as if a lightbulb went off in his head, he shook her hand not too forceful.
“No. Thank you.” He nodded his head once.
Marie walked away to the door only to turn back to see Will bending down scratching his leg, the socks made a red imprint on them. “Oh, by the way. Nice socks.”
Marie missed the way he blushed a scarlet color but she did smile smugly when she heard him stammer, “uhh, th-thank you.”

Lunch Break

            Dan Garett sat in a pool of shaded sun, his face cast with a yellow glow from the table umbrella above. He checked his silver wristwatch, noticing it was a good half hour past the end of his lunch break, but that was okay. Nobody would notice, and he was still finishing his mint chocolate chip ice cream. It was in the blob-of-somewhat-solid ice cream in a sea of liquid stage. He smoothed his slightly receding dark hair with his fingertips, looking around. He appeared a bored man, his mouth inverted in something not quite a frown.

             As soon as his eyes rose above his cup of liquidating cream, he was faced with a woman in dark dress clothing and shiny black shoes, the kind that were only fashionable in her mind. Her nostrils flared, making the thick piercing between them all the more pronounced and disturbing. She was staring right back at him, harsh eyes giving him a headache. They stayed like that until a blonde woman with a messy ponytail, multiple handbags, and a black ball cap inadvertently knocked into the darkly dressed woman, causing her to turn around and face the careless pedestrian.

            Dan heard many fervent apologies as he jumped out of his plastic chair and ran from his intimidating boss, leaving only a Styrofoam cup and some melted ice cream behind.

Sage 

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