We’ve been working on narration and descriptive writing, which is a bit of a bore but much better than other things I can mention. Besides, short stories are fun and there are pretty much no limits as to what you can write about, unless they specifically state it in the criteria. We had one hour of class time for this assignment, and I thought I’d post my piece here just for kicks – enjoy 🙂
Her eyes flicker open.
A wave of scent hits her, and she bows her head for a second, steadying herself. Her back feels heavy, loaded with something that hadn’t been there a few months ago.
She pads gently in the goo and kicks aside a few scraps of papery shell, the remains of her temporary home rustling underneath her delicate feet. Swivelling her head, she sees a spattering of colour and, thinking that the feather-beaks have found her, stumbles crazily away across the branch in fright. She needs to hide, and fast. The feather-beaks are scarily fast, with their powerful wings and their beady eyes. Her head swings as she looks around for cover and she is scared and she doesn’t want to be eaten and her back rolls suddenly and she comes unbalanced and her feet are slipping off the bark and then she is falling.
She shuts her eyes and waits for the moment when her new life is going to end just as it has begun, but it doesn’t come. Nothing is making sense. Why doesn’t she feel anything?
Could this be the afterlife? She allows herself to crack one eye open.
Blue. It is a lovely shade of blue, scattered with fluffed-out cotton clouds. In the distance, she can see a line of large chestnut coloured feather-beaks powerfully scraping their way across the horizon, masters of the sky. She can feel the breeze floating behind her in steady whirls. She feels as light as paper.
Maybe heaven is all about floating and levitating. A leaf hits her. Perhaps she isn’t in heaven at all. On closer inspection, she realizes that she’s hit a tree. But how?
But she can hear something else. A constant, steady beating, coming from behind her. Cautiously, she peeks over her shoulder. The spatter of colour is still there, but she might as well see clearly before she faces her foes. Yet when she tries to turn around, the colour moves with her. Something is wrong – and then she finally realizes.
Blooming out of her shoulder blades are two dainty wings, as thin as leaves, rustling dryly in the warm summer wind and dusted with a layer of powder that glimmered faintly in the sunlight. So these are what have been making the beating noises.The colours she had shied away from are her very own; the wings themselves are intricately adorned with a myriad of shapes and tones. Mint-green, burnt burgundy, and jet black swirls, spots and other innumerable little details, undetectable by the human eye and are meant for her eyes alone. When she flexes her tiny muscles, they spread open in their full glory, mesmerizingly spellbinding and wickedly fearsome.
She has her very own pair of wings! Her joy is inexplicable. Exhilaration. It is a new feeling for her. Soaring and swooping around gaily, feeling the wind lifting her up and carrying her away, she allows herself a brief moment before she lowers herself down to perch on a branch, brushing down her wonderful new assets carefully and catching her breath.
The butterfly spreads her wings one more time.