Alphabet Soup Minuscule

J.C. Scheff

The Death of a Butterfly

Once, when I was around five or six, I found the most beautiful monarch caught in the grill of my dads Chevy Nova. I remember thinking that maybe I could fix it as the Iowa wind made its wings flutter once more. Who knows how long it had been there, or if it suffered any. Small children don’t think about those things, we think simple, concrete things–like “can I make it fly again?”

And I believed I could. I used to believe in a lot of things back then. and part of me still does. I remember my right knee being bandaged up from wrecking my bike the day before, and how I cried as I watched the blood form a crooked, thin line down my shin. The band-aids were 12 hours old dirty and worn by this time as I sat on my knees in the gravel drive, in front of the car with the monarch. 

The right-wing felt dry against my small fingertip and it crumpled like an oak leaf in the fall beneath my pressure. Bits of orange and black stained the tip a bit, as I watched in horror at what I had just done. 

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3 thoughts on “The Death of a Butterfly

  1. have to say it’s got great imagery. my reflection back to past events like crashing on my bike while traveling down a tar chipped gravel road and getting into the loose gravel and flying over my handle bars across a ditch. i was trying to beat a storm that was coming. i survived that. but i gotta say it’s pale to some of the things i endured as an adult – that’s for sure. i see ya updated your photo…nice pic joelly. i haven’t updated mine but i can tell ya i don’t have the preppy look now as i do with my profile. got long hair in the back. best description is a mullet with the look of a shark fin on the top….lol

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