You can always count on butterflies to deliver your map.
I flitted this phrase around in my mind on a well-worn path yet still arrived at no satisfactory destination.
The markings on my arm demanded my attention daily and reminded me how little I knew about the journey before me.
The markings, the message, the dream – it all taunted me.
Feeding my restless frustration, butterflies came and went, but I was still without a map.
Finally it happened – the sweet stream trickle of a butterfly song became the key.
Bone-deep searing pain engulfed me as the markings shifted, now clearly showing the beginnings of my map, while my mind’s eye cowered from the bombardment of incomprehensible dreamy images.
I couldn’t consciously wrap words around this silent song’s calling, yet I knew what was to come.
And though I saw my eventual death, I took firm steps toward the forest.
He waited a lifetime for his turn to ring The Bell.
It was said that The Bell opened the Next Door.
Even though no one knew where the Next Door led, everyone spoke of it in hushed tones and reverently blinked when referring to The Bell.
His many memories of The Bell were fuzzy, soundless, and surreal which allowed another door to open – for doubt.
The solid sure footsteps he started with now shuffled tentatively while beads of sweat turned into streams.
His hand trembled as he reached for The Bell’s chain. Eyes closed and teeth clenched, he felt the cool links slip into his palm as if they belonged. A soft pull later, a deep dark stillness enveloped him.
A slow blink later, his Next Door appeared and intricately beckoned to be opened.
She slowly covers her tiny sphericle with a loosely woven blanket, taking a languid glance at the swirling pulsing promiseful life it shone.
This one will last.
Her eyes roam around flitting over the unfortunate blanket choices of the past and the sphericles who paid for her mistakes with their promise.
The thick blankets stole too much light and warmth away while the sheer ones let sparks of flame pass through, much to her dismay.
She wonders if this is her time to pass the test and then wonders if she’s ever wondered anything else at all. Her mind swims with sphericles and blankets – some pale, almost forgotten, others as bright as the undying fire and just as painful to touch.
This one is the one.
Some time later she slowly uncovers the sphericle and watches its promise pulse and swirl with hastening intensity that she knows can only go on for a short time.
She lays down on her back next to the sphericle, listening to it hum, she slowly covers them both with the perfect blanket, listening to it quiet down, she blinks at the little spots of light shining through the weave and enjoys how they seem to twinkle as soft breezes whisper through her infinite garden.