The Butterfly’s Tale

There was a boy who wrote stories all the time; random ones that came to him about far off adventurers, pirates, astronauts, time travelers, and ancient civilizations that descended from the stars. But he was always searching for his story — that one story his soul was aching to tell, but couldn’t find its voice.

He devised a way to listen to his soul’s incessant glossolalia: a tiny caterpillar that could crawl into the caverns of his soul. Then the caterpillar could relay the story back. Unfortunately this was easier said than done.

The caterpillar returned to his ear and whispered in its squeaky little voice the story his soul had to tell. He could only hear fragments of the caterpillar’s frail little tale, as its coherence was lost along the difficult trek.

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March 18th

I wrote this story a few years ago for a writing class, and whenever I re-read it, I feel better. I’ve been a bit too busy & absent-minded to update, so I thought I’d share this.
This sucker’s almost 3000 words; I hope you’re not busy.
Enjoy :)

March 18th

          In that exact moment I saw things clearer than ever before. Frozen in the middle of that intersection as that white ’89 Bronco barreled toward us. Kevin’s eyes pierced me with reproach, or so I felt. I dragged him along for the trip, like any older brother with a sense of parental responsibility would do. Like the water of a freshly melted mountain spring, my thoughts flowed lucidly and effortlessly. I guess you could say that my life flashed before my eyes. It was more of a reflection than a flash, a reflection of myself, ready to be scrutinized. Yet in that lifetime before the inevitable marriage of metal and flesh, I couldn’t help but think of my father’s death, and how it lead to this very moment.

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