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?