Writing butterflies, so against my nature

[Ravenstorture]

read it, tell me what you think, yadda yadda yadda

BUTTER FLIES

This story refers to the annual American migration of monarch butterflies southwards to California, Florida, and Mexico.

A thousand or more shifting, fluttering monarch butterflies tumbled through the air, their collective shape convulsing and twisting in the soft afternoon light. A slightly less number of custard tarts sat silently, in wait, twenty or so kilometres ahead.

Mrs Bruin paused in her Friday afternoon ritual of taking in the washing to note a passing shadow. Glancing towards the low sun, she saw to her utter dismay the familiar cloud like a swarm of bees dancing with the last rays of sunlight. Suddenly torn between her washing and the tarts cooling about her kitchen windowsill, she imagined someone emptying a vacuum cleaner and decided another load of washing wasn't half as bad as baking another hundred tarts for the monthly church market. Dashing inside, she began to clear surfaces with a speed only a sixty-year-old woman faced with a shitload of baking could muster.

Meanwhile, a thousand or so monarch butterflies advanced with terrifying speed.

Mr Bruin looked up from his cricket biography at the sound of enraged muttering coming from the kitchen. Something about generic floor plans, small kitchens, low maintenance housing, not nearly enough bench space? as indeed Mrs Bruin was in a spot of bother as to where to put all twenty baking trays of her steaming ten centimetre radius by five centimetres deep custard cream tarts. Resorting finally to placing upturned glasses amongst the tarts and balancing more trays on top to form a sort of multi-storey pie tray, she finally fit all the trays inside. Mrs Bruin collapsed against the fridge with a sigh and a squelch as one of her beige half-heels sank into a pie on a dish on the parquet.

As the sunlight dimmed, Mr Bruin wondered if it was the dying day or just that time of the year again.

Mrs Bruin, however, was so exhausted by the ordeal that she did not bother to count the nineteen pie trays crammed in the tiny kitchen, and thus overlooked the twentieth sitting innocently outside on a garden table.

The butterflies, however, did not.

Butterflies, contrary to what many believe, are not stupid. They are very aware of the saying "nobody suspects the butterfly", and take great pleasure in taking advantage of it. Butterfly activity can be traced in the disappearance of a two and a half-ton steel wrecking ball from an Indianapolis construction site in 1974, sparking the idea for René Magritte's painting "the infinite search", and in many cases of cow mutilation and Human Spontaneous Combustion.
The butterflies dive bombed the custard, tiny thwocking rousing Mrs Bruin from her daze in the kitchen. Running for the back door, the slammed into it and fell unconscious at her husbands feet, deaf to his explanation of the suddenly locked door.
"You know what happened last year," he said. "We were clearing out those butterflies for weeks on end?"

Thwock, thwock, smack, bubble, squeak, flutter, laughter. Fine feelers and antennae became clogged with thick, hot, steaming custard and all sense and feeling was lost to the sweet tasting goo. One thousand butterflies held custard fights over the washing line, the tiny pitter patterings of custard hitting tiny furry bodies and the light insectoid laughter filled the air as the monarchs dusted Mrs Bruins washing with a light shower of custard and butterfly dust. Breeding could wait - as far as the butterflies were concerned, getting there was half the fun.

Ravenstorture :demon: