Fly On The Wall: Fairy Tales From A Misanthropic Universe, Vol. I (5 page)

The emerald butterfly
floated up to the moth breezily, she told him about the special,
and sacred, nature of everything in the orchard, and that sadness
was the sole thing prohibited therein. A nearby flower, one with a
fly upon its stem, swung lightly in the wind. Bizarrely the moth
was no longer sad, he did not know how such things were possible
but his burden was lightened, and he flew accordingly higher, many
feet so. The moth was entranced by the flying green shard, he could
not bear to be burdened so, not around such a perfect creature. A
pang of jealousy shot through the moth's wing veins.

The moth and the butterfly
spent many wonderful days together, slowly realizing that they
were, if not birds of a feather, at least insects of a shape. The
butterfly cared a lot about the moth and often tried to cheer it
up. She tried to keep it from being sad about its dull brown nature
Normally it worked flawlessly, and the moth fluttered about, happy
enough on his own at night. He needed only momentary cheering from
the butterfly every now and then. The moth was joyful, for it too
had a special purpose there, without it the night flowers, of which
there were many, would be all alone, and eventually be no more at
all. The moth did not sleep, he felt no need to in that mystic
orchard; he thought too much about the butterfly. When time to
sleep came he would find the tall wakeful plant, and rub his wings
against its powdery stem. At night the moth was the garden's king;
the best, brightest, biggest, most beautiful of the all nocturnal
insects. It was his kingdom, yet he was uninterested in its
governance.

During the day, the moth
plotted and schemed, though he was joyful he could not bear the
butterfly's beauty much longer. She was green and stunning, a
floating gem, and what was he? A discarded cloth, jerkily blown by
wind's cold currents, that's what. He hid beneath well skirted
plants conspiring, he would sort it all out, soon enough. He too
wanted to be emerald green, beloved and beholden by all.

He was particularly upset
when the butterfly spoke to the beautiful flowers. He feared that
whatever he might do the butterfly would find someone or something
better and more beautiful than he. The butterfly saw these tinges
and joked with the moth that perhaps he should be green instead of
her. Normally that sufficed to raise his spirits. She cared for the
month, deeply so, but those comments terrorized his soul. He never
told her, but they haunted him, with waking dreams of his own
transformation into a green jewel. He despaired at being unable to
be himself. At least, the moth thought, at least he would have her.
But this too was frustrated, for the butterfly knew that she was
destined to be free. She knew that separate species could never
mate, and so that they could never be.

One day the moth could
take no more. He remembered the butterfly's taunt — that he be
green instead of her. He would. He would show her, he would be the
green one, he would be one everyone loved. Finally, he would be the
one everyone looked at. He knew how too. He would take her green,
then she would see the torment he endured, let her try to be happy
then. No other green would suffice, no other green was as beautiful
or as heartrendingly intense as hers. Sadly, the moth was more
cruel than he was dumb. The moth found a rose, the most beautiful
of all which bore the sharpest of thorns. He carefully snapped them
off, giving the rose a thick coat instead, one spun from
caterpillar thread so that it might finally hug its friends without
hurting them, a fair trade for both.

As the butterfly slept,
the moth flew to her. He ignored the night plants and went to start
his wretched misdeed instead. He took a thorn, and slowly cut a
green section from the butterfly's wings with it. He winced as he
cut a similar section from his own. He momentarily realised the
panels above him, like pieces of stained church glass, then
carefully swapped them in. Impatient, he flew to a drop and to
check his reflection in its aqueous aether. Oh wow. Oh heavens.
Finally, he began to be beautiful. The moth took one more look to
make sure it was real, then flew back quick to continue his
villainy. The green panel felt strange in his wings, it was much
lighter than his heavy brown scales. The moth worked to control his
flight, he found the imbalance troubling. He wondered if it was
right to do this, but he didn't wonder long, for soon he was back
by the butterfly and beautylust which drove him mad set in once
more.

And so he cut, and cut,
and cut again. When half her wings became half his, half the night
had passed and it was time for him to pause once more. He flew to
the drop again and looked. He was magnificent, unlike anything ever
seen before. Mottled, mixed, contrasting bright green and brown
cream filled in his wings. The moth realized he could stop now and
that all would think him beautiful, heck even the butterfly would
likely have accepted such a result even if she would have been mad
at first. But no, it was insufficient. He needed the rush of pure
unbridled power, he needed that great green, that beautiful beloved
green. He flew back to end his work.

When the butterfly awoke
she did not know what had happened, all she knew was that flight
then felt quite hard. Her wings seemed strangely heavy. She hobbled
over to a glistening dew drop, and immediately she knew. She was
sad, not because of the green, for though she loved it she knew it
was but pigment, but because of the moth and his cruel misdeeds.
She would not have given him her green, twas true, but why ought
she have to at all. From that day on the butterfly never saw the
moth again. The moth then flew in the nighttimes only, having
returned to his predestined task. He hid from her, and from his own
shame, and so they did not meet. The moth was happy though, he now
ruled the night not only with criminal finesse but with arresting
beauty too.

The butterfly took
betrayal badly, she could not find joy again, nor trust either. No
plant, no flower, no bewildered bug could make her smile or fly as
she once had. To make things that much worse, the garden's rules
were strict on the matter, so she left. Forever. The magical
orchard did not permit sadness, and she knew that she could not
overcome it, not this time, and certainly not with the moth about.
She was only a butterfly, she could not change, not forever. So
long as the moth was alive in that place she could not
be.

At least the moth had
indeed become the most beautiful moth ever to have been seen. He
stayed awake for days and days, showing off his green color, always
doting upon what was now his, as publicly as he could. By all
accounts, he was stunning; a flying fragment of jade. He would
never be the joyful sparkling emerald that the butterfly had
resembled, but that had never mattered. His new found bright color,
sadly, made him a most visible moth. As chance would have it, one
late evening, just as he set out to pollinate the night plants an
owl flew by, and at that same moment, thinking to itself how hungry
it was, and how it envied the parrot's beauty, the fat owl spotted
the moth, and within moments had gained a nutritious crunchy
snack.

The butterfly fluttered
about, gaining more happiness each day, meeting many in her
travels. It was a shame she could never learn of the moth’s
inglorious demise. Some years on, butterfly years, of course, the
butterfly was quite happy, she was quite content but dared not go
back, for she knew she'd lose what joy she'd gained were she to see
that awful moth again. Even so she remained loved by all, not
because of her color but rather her personality and friendly
nature. It was a shame that on a balmy afternoon, on her way to
meet a newfound friend, one whom she planned to tell about the
magic garden, the dull, but happy, brown butterfly learned, rather
violently, of the existence of a 2005 CTS, bright sky blue, owned
by a Ms. Apphrodite, a local horticulturist.

The air felt
eerie even though they'd lived there for three months. Maybe it was
the intense silence, of the sort that makes one whisper, just to
make sure one still hears. It was to be expected in a dwelling of
this age - the walls were very thick indeed.

She hadn't been
quite as accepting. She knew there had to be some paranormal
explanation, but then that was typical. “How could a house this old
NOT have some proverbial or even literal skeletons
in
‽
” She knew
that such thoughts were silly, so she deferred to him, and they got
on with their lives, ignoring the strange feeling.

That night after
an exciting session, post-coital hunger hit them both hard. She
wanted him pressed up against her, but she needed the leftover
slices from the fridge more. He was happy to oblige, on both
counts. He rose and walked off, pretending to be a ghost. On the
way, he contemplated how much she meant to him, how she had made
him a better person, and how perfect they were together. He made
his way farther and farther down the unlit stone corridor to his
kitchen. He felt the warm afterglow of sex spread through his body,
his extremities tingled. He wondered why they fucked nocturnally,
and why most did the same. It didn't make much sense to him, but
such was life. He paused. What was that
‽
A slight glow slowly grew greater.
It shone in a triangle from the riser of one of the stone steps. A
frightening color, an impossible one at that for no light resided
there. It was a strange sky blue, which pearlesced yellow from time
to time. The man craned his neck to look at the triangle, trying to
decipher its origin. He wasn't sure what to do. It was a reflection
surely, or perhaps his mind playing a nasty trick. But what if it
wasn't just a shape cast by the moon or some streetlight? What if
it wasn't just some solemn bulb's whose rays had been sent
streaming through a scantily dressed vaulted window? What if it was
more? He was just being silly. Right? The only way to dispel his
fear was to touch that stone step. That would prove nothing was
there. Once and for all. He reached down, extending his index
finger and thought
“here goes
nothing”.
As he touched it he seemed to
vanish in a flash. What a pity none were there to see that bright
man stealing light
.

On waking he
saw the most beautiful creature to have ever graced creation. She
occupied the whole of his vision with her alluring aura. It
resembled a woman, but it clearly could not be. Every flick of each
ginger strand of hair licked the air with errant violet flames.
She, or rather it, was really quite unreal. He looked at her face
and realized immediately that what would follow would hurt. The
cream colored walls behind her were really quite plain, but for
some suspicious brown splatter. A dastardly look beset her deep
purple eyes; in their violet darkness was an endless pit which
pulled one in, ever closer. She grinned and walked away, leaving a
trail of mauve will-o-wisps in her wake.

He just sat
there, staring at the stain
è
d walls. Many moments seemed to
pass before she came back, but when she returned she did so with
his lover in tow, shackled. The old ball and chain seemed to have
developed a rather more literal ball and chain. He'd been scared
before, but how he was terrified. He didn't know how they had
gotten there. It must have been that dread isosceles, but still;
how? More importantly, how had his beloved been brought into that
awful dungeon. He did not know what the redhead planned to do to
them, and he did not know why his lover was in shackles. All he
knew was fear. He trembled in trepidation.

Her eyes
pleaded for mercy. She couldn't understand why he hadn't just
agreed to move elsewhere like she'd asked. She told him, not just
once, no, but rather a great many times. She told him she hated
their home, she told him that she felt something, she'd begged him
to move. But did he ever listen? No, of course not. She always knew
there was something funny about that house, and now it really
wasn’t very funny at all. She didn't know how she knew what she
knew, but one thing was sure, she was being marched to see her
lover by a creature, one the likes of which she'd never been
before. It resembled a man in shape, but could clearly not be.
Shadows of flame traced his movements, his limbs left trails of
scorching heat and shimmering disfigured air. His, or rather its,
perfect black hair glowed with an iridescent yellow fire. He was
chiseled beyond what any human could be and wore a chalk stripe
lilac suit. He towered above her, a giant of a man. His branch like
arms yanked her forwards, and his handsomeness arrested her. She
did not know what this creature was, but she was scared. Thick
shackles appeared around her legs and arms as if by magick. She
hadn't even realized that she could move, now she could do so no
more but by its will. Her slender body followed the monstrous
creature's rough exhortations. The man-creature beckoned her, and
so she went, forced on by her legs and his arms. Her lover's eyes
pleaded with the creature for clemency, for her, if not for him.
Her lover was not small, so his visible terror frightened her even
more. The creature looked at them, each in turn and
smiled.

The creature
did not speak, yet they somehow understood its meaning, a screaming
growl resonated in their minds and cried words with the lament of a
thousand thousand lost souls. They had, the creature let it be
known, entered its realm. This, it clarified, was unwise, and they
would face some minor torment at the very least. They would face a
choice, and the option they did not pick would be forced upon the
other.