As I was reading through my diary, or journal if you’d like to be more masculine, I came upon an entry dated Thursday 3/5/92. So, if you do the math, this was about twenty four years and four months ago, approximately. It didn’t contain a regular journal, or diary if you’d like to be more secure about your masculinity, entry but a short story. I don’t remember why I wrote it, but I know that there is some message in there that I was attempting to convey. Well, I don’t seem to remember what it was, and re-reading it didn’t help any.
Well, to be fair to myself, that was a pretty dark and stark time for me, haunted by a shade of beauty of hypnotic power. Which eventually led to another catastrophe not worth mentioning. Which memory made me read this thing in the first place, because I really can’t recall much of that catastrophe. I just know that it exists. So, I thought I’d post the story so someone out there who felt the same way as I did, possibly, figure out what the hell I was writing about. Here it is, in its full glory, edited because I found some serious flaws in use of language.
We watch in reverence as Narcissus is turned into a flower… a flower?—Genesis, Supper’s Ready
A butterfly skirts the air and brushes a daffodil, falling to its death. Accidentally, a boot emerges from the overgrown bushes and steps on the fallen insect. Quietly in the aftermath of doom and destruction, a light metallic sound of a zipper closing echoes in the still air.
The boot and its twin go away.
The butterfly thinks, “What…?”
“Oh! Look! A daffodil. Isn’t it pretty?” A slippered foot gently descends on the defunct butterfly.
“No babe, you’re pretty,” and strong masculine hands clamp themselves down upon the narrow, pacified shoulders. A cheek glows red thinking to itself how pretty it must look. Goaded on by the red glow, a boot descends on the slippered foot.
The butterfly begins to wonder, “What next…?” Until…
The sunrise frightens away the morning dew. A few crickets sing valiantly to outsing the distant sounds of roosters greeting the perpetual ball of heat rising on the horizon. Then all is quiet.
The wind mumbles to itself, the leaves tolerate the ceaseless senility, and a heavenly harp breaks a string.
The fiery day comes on strong, blazing the sky pale blue and scorching mercilessly the lifeless butterfly. Helpless and ignoble, it can only suffer the unbearable heat. The flora watch the squashed bug and secretly delight themselves on the untimely demise. They look toward their own and the daffodil stands proudly erect and tells its companions: “I’m beautiful.”
The flora applauds its performance. But their victory is short lived. A lovely voice, ethereal and otherworldly, descends upon the field. It sings and the flora realize it’s the butterfly.
This is what they heard:
Once my wings could lift me high, gentle winds took me far. I could see the world from high, but now I’ve been left to die. Oh pooh on you, you sorry sight. I trusted you, my daffodil. A companion I thought you were. Now I see what you must see: Blind and weak, a sickly thing. Don’t complain, for now I die…
But before I go, I request a last desire to be fulfilled. Since my wings reflect your taint, and both of us in vein are same, give my wings a parting kiss.
The daffodil looked at the butterfly and realized the truth it sang. Its wings were the same taint, and for that they deserved its unearthly kiss—divine and sweet like the nectar of the gods. Indignant that it had to stoop to the butterfly, the daffodil bent its stem to be able to kiss those magnificent wings.
“Oh, damn. I stepped on a flower.”