November petered out. December whistled on the horizon. Jack sat at his writing desk and looked onto liquorice daylight which hung on fading ivy. Fingerprints, dead bugs, and pigeon droppings adorned his window. Today was one of those writing days where the whiteness of his journal burned his eyes. His pen felt like a heavy wooden club.
He looked around his office for inspiration. Beside him, on an oak desk, sat a redundant butterfly net and an empty marmalade jar, a golden lid listless beside it. Never, bend, Microsoft, Thinkpad, unless, that, from. These, the only uninspiring words which hung from dark brown metallic cabinets and tired walls in need of urgent redecoration. He realised he was stuck in his own jar, one filled with a myriad of electronics and sterility; one so far removed from nature it pushed him further into his black office chair. There were no butterflies, they were another six months away, the other side of bleak dark cold days waiting to numb him.
As he pondered another day of not writing, another day of moving a full stop or comma around a page, a song floated from a speaker sat in the corner of his room. Wild Child – Best of Enya. The music began to seep into his jellied physique and lifted him from his chair. He looked down at his desk. The word truth rose from a glass coaster then floated towards the ceiling. Happy, darted from a card attached to a filing cabinet. Hero, love, father, husband, all followed until the atmosphere around him filled with excitement.
Jack leapt out of his chair, picked up the net and jar, and he was back in his garden, a hot June day. Everywhere, odours of freshly mown grass and roses. Lavender bushes filled with Red Admiral, Cabbage White, Gatekeepers, Dingy Skippers. He chased and collected until his jar was full, not of butterflies, but words to inspire and warm him in the coming months.
He returned to his desk and opened the jar. His club became a magnificent quill and raced across his journal. One by one, he released words back into nature. Father, joined rosehip and ruby. Hero, flashed yellow and hot warm custard. Cabinet, opened to release atlas and adventure. Thank you, dripped green and peculiar.
Jack sat and smiled. Today was going to be a good day, a day filled with new worlds and new chapters.
2 thoughts on “The Butterfly Collector”
This is simply divine writing. I’m not sure which is brighter or more colorful…the writing or the picture? The descriptions and the feelings pour down like summer rain. I’m glad Jack got his act together and gave that imagination a stroll in the garden. The words came and with them came the meanings that most matter. He’s got his hands and head full now. Write on! 🙂
Thank you so much, Terveen. I am glad you enjoyed both. It was one of those posts where I hesitated in pressing the post button, as one which was slightly outside of my comfort zone. Your kind and supportive words show I made the right decision. Thank you 🙏