Carousel's Butterfly Contest [Prose results on page 14!]

Carousel's next contest theme should be:

HAHA POLL WHORE	7.0%	[ 3 ]
Rain	41.9%	[ 18 ]
Poison	11.6%	[ 5 ]
Painting Prompts (I post several paintings that you can choose from to inspire poetry/prose)	11.6%	[ 5 ]
Parrots	9.3%	[ 4 ]
Sun	2.3%	[ 1 ]
Dolls	14.0%	[ 6 ]
Trees	2.3%	[ 1 ]
Total Votes:			[ 43 ]

[Decrepit Carousel]

Alright, lovelies! Here's what you've been waiting for! First place in Prose goes to zhangyefei!

zhangyefei

Title: Butterfly World

Sometimes she wondered what was the biggest change in her life because of her wings.

“I couldn’t do P.E. anymore,” she would finally tell herself, and then she would double back to explain, “Physical Education. Phys Ed. You go out and change into gym clothes and rope-climb in the gym and stuff.”

She would always feel obliged to explain it some more, just for herself, for her skeptic on the inside. “You have to go and change. But if I changed, that would reveal my secret. And it’s not specially made clothes for me, either, so.”

Finally, she would give up. “I never liked sports anyway,” she said optimistically. But then something like doubt would cross her face, a shadow of darkness that her public seemed to enjoy more than they should.

“But I couldn’t do them,” she concluded in a softer tone. “That’s what’s important.”

--

She used to like wings.

“What are you drawing?” she whispered.

“It’s a girl.” Maria tilted back her paper so now she could see it fully. It was, indeed, a girl, with two pretty fluffy wings with white feathers sketched on her back. They extended out openly, like an angel.

“It’s really pretty,” she said, “like an angel or something.”

“Thanks,” Maria said, but with a quick glance at the teacher. Old Toothbrush-Stache was busy on the whiteboard, so she flipped the paper over to show her friend the other side. It was a pencil sketch of another girl, who looked exactly the same, except the dimensions were skewed and the wings were not fluffy feathers, but bat wings. She wondered idly if they were just mutations or an invention of an evil scientist, and how their clothes would even fit. But those were questions that weren’t supposed to be asked about creatures like these, apparently. They were supposed to be accepted, in their smudgy pencil sketchy way.

“Cool,” she said. She wasn’t sure what else to say. A fascination with wings was not healthy? This was not something she could say to her best friend.

“Exactly,” Maria said. “They’re tragic heroines for the story I’m writing. Do you want to hear about them?”

Even though she was secretly fascinated at the idea of wings, she wasn’t particularly interested in some story about them. “Later,” she said, and then pretended to be focused on math so she wouldn’t hear a sob story about a prince and two girls with wings.

It never occurred to her that there might be different types of wings. She walked out of the classroom with the idea that wings had to be either fluffy or batty, an idea that she would come to look upon ruefully.

--

“Your father’s working, dear. Don’t bother him.” Her mother paused. “It’s dangerous to go into his room, anyway. It’s off-limits.”

“Won’t.” She stuffed a toast in her mouth and flipped open the newspapers to the funnies. Her mother, a businesswoman with a neat bun and a sharp face, was buttering her own toast quite independently.

“Hey, Mom.” Her mother did not look up. “What does Dad do, anyway? For his job?”

“Scientist.”

“At what company?”

“I’m not sure,” her mother said vaguely. “Robotech. Something like that.”

“Oh.”

“What makes you ask that?”

“Nothing, Mom.” She settled back into her seat. Robotech apparently had closed down two months ago, and the final negotiations had just finished, read the small article that was buried under a tragic shooting and an ad about skin care.

But there was no use in asking questions about her mysterious father, or making trouble for anybody, so she tucked the newspaper away in the corner and the information away in her mind.

--

There was a huge swing at the top of the building.

“I think they want somebody to just fling themselves off,” Maria said. They always ate lunch at the off-limits rooftop area, and it wasn’t very dangerous at all. The huge wire fence surrounded them, so it was safe to just sit there and watch the clouds laze by.

But today, as always, she had made her own boring lunch of the same old peanut-butter and jelly sandwich. The magic was lost from such a sandwich after having eaten it for the last ten years of her life. Maria always had exciting lunches. She eyed the Subway sandwich enviously.

“Maybe there was a playground here once,” she said, munching into her sandwich ferociously.

“On a rooftop? Crazy.”

“They do stuff like that. It’s architecture.”

“Crazy,” Maria repeated. “Do you want to hear about my story now?”

“A little later.” She bit into her sandwich again. “If you really do swing, do you think you can get high enough to swing above the fence?”

Maria peered at the fence behind them. “Probably,” she said. “But don’t try it. It’s dangerous.”

“I know. I’m not stupid. You’ll just fall down fifteen stories and die.” She peered downwards at where the other students were milling around at their free lunchtime. “It wouldn’t be pretty.”

“Not unless you flew.”

“You can’t fly.”

“It’d be cool to fly, though. Like a bird,” Maria said, staring upwards. She had to direct her attention there too. To fly? The shadows of birds flitted across the rooftop, and a breeze rolled across the way.

To fly?

--

There was a field across her house that went all the way above her head. It was filled with sunflowers and butterflies, an ecological mystery that she never quite understood. But it was pretty, and she would sit there during the summertime as a child, skin growing slick with sweat and her dress clinging to her.

Her father used to bring her out.

She didn’t remember what he looked like anymore, but he had been kind to her then, and taught her about the butterflies.

They were pretty creatures, small furry with translucent wings that stretched outwards, veins clearly seen, colors like the glass-stained windows of cathedrals. And their fluttering! So beautiful! Together, like a flock, they would fly. Orange like the dipping sunset, blue like the dusky sky, they were fragments of the sky which had fallen, gentle and delicate wings that were thin and did not seem capable of supporting their bodies, but they did, and they flew.

“Is it wonderful to fly?” she asked them on her way home.

There were no butterflies anymore—the wrong season or something—but she stared into the field for an answer, anyway.

“I think I’d like to fly sometime,” she said. “Not, like, a plane. But with wings.” Freedom, liberation! To soar the skies with only the sun at her back and no ground at her feet, to dip through the clouds and spin around, to feel the wind and rush into it, cutting into it, nothing holding her back, not even herself.

“It’d be fun,” she finished awkwardly, unbefitting for such a glorious dream. And then she went home to make her peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich lunch.

--

“The swing set at the top of the school?” Her teacher, a man whose skin seemed both tan and pale at once—naturally tan, but eternally pale—peered at his books. He did not seem to be the type to wander outside.

“Yeah,” she said. “I’ve never been there myself. But I’ve heard of it. Was there a playground up there once? It doesn’t seem safe. What if someone tries to use it and flies off?”

“I’ve never heard of it,” he said. “But it’s very mysterious.”

“Very,” she said, and then she left.

--

The note at the kitchen table shattered her life.

Her mother’s curly handwriting, admitting she could no longer stay with this life, she had run off with a man named Roberto—it all seemed to be one big joke.

Discontent?

What did having a child and a husband have to do with discontent?

Liberation, freedom, wings and dreams—they were just childish expectations. She felt like crumpling the note, but she felt too shocked, too empty, to do anything. Her stomach hurt. No. Her head hurt. Everything hurt. The light seemed too bright.

“Dad?” she croaked. Swallowing, she asked, futilely, “Mom?”

There was no answer for either.

She went upstairs and searched all the rooms, slowly, her heart beating quickly at each chance that her mother could be behind her door. She saw it coming. She had seen it coming. She knew her mother would not be in the bathroom, or behind the shower curtains, either, but she looked there anyway.

Maybe this was a joke.

This was probably a joke.

Her father’s laboratory was actually in the basement, sealed with a huge door that required a password, electronic. But she knew the password and punched it in, ignoring the bright yellow warning sign, labeling the front like an ugly beeping nose.

The door opened with a quiet hiss.

“Dad?” she asked, lost. The lights flickered on.

--

The swings were high, and arched beautifully. Their poles were not even painted anymore, just metal, and the swing itself looked uncomfortable. She sat there a few times to eat lunch, but never swinging over. Even though she would probably bash herself into the fence, she knew there was always a chance she could swing herself over.

“I used to like swings,” she told Maria, who was writing her story.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Used to play on them all the time. Me, and Mom, and Dad. I used to want to see how far I went. I think one time I even looped it.” She smiled. “It was scary.”

“Wow.” Maria was not paying attention.

“That’s why I don’t like having this swing here.” She patted it fondly. “It’s really cool and mysterious. But I always wonder if I’m tempted to try it, and accidentally leap off the building.”

“You wouldn’t do that,” Maria said.

“Yeah.” She smiled. “I know.”

--

“Dad?”

Her voice sounded confused, even to her.

The walls were covered with butterflies.

There were even some live ones, in cages, all with little white wires sticking to them. There were needles and operation systems and everything hooked up around, but her eyes kept on staring at the butterflies on the walls. They were all pinned neatly underneath glass, little markings, little papers taped on them.

Her father was hunched over the table.

“Dad?”

All pretty butterflies, lined up in a row.

“Yes, yes.” Her father turned around. He smelled strange—like he hadn’t showered for days—and his beard was heavy and disgusting. She even wondered briefly if this was her father. His eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses, but it was clear he hadn’t slept for days. Maybe weeks.

“Dad?” she asked again, like a broken record.

Was this her father? Who had taken her out? To that field with sunflowers and butterflies?

“Yes, yes, a specimen.” The test tube dropped, and he only absently wiped the blood on his lab coat. She wasn’t sure whether to scream or cry. She had to get out, but she couldn’t make any sudden movements. He was crazy. She was sure of it.

“Dad?”

“It’s always, always the young. Always the young. Need to learn respect. Some respect.” He muttered to himself as he turned away and drew a needle from his coat pocket.

And he suddenly lunged at her and everything went blank.

--

The school was scary at dark, but the sun eventually came up.

She sat on the roof for a while, thinking.

Her wings were dry by now, she could feel them as if they were an extension of her. She had to make rugged cuts in her school uniform, but they could move freely now, so that was fine. She wasn’t worried about that.

They were orange, like a Monarch. They were a regal orange. She liked that. Color of sunup. Like how the sun was coming at the moment. The veins could clearly be seen, the black edges rimming against the orange softly and elegantly. She liked them. They weren’t too heavy, except when they were wet, and then she could barely move.

They wouldn’t fly, though, she knew as much. Decoration. Probably black-market dolls. Who knows? She had fled from her house. Her father would be safe. Maybe she should tell someone. But she remembered her tan-pale teacher who disliked going outside, and Maria who had dreams of beautiful winged people, and her business mother who was off in the Bahamas with Roberto.

It wasn’t like she had anyone to tell.

Physics dictated that the wings wouldn’t support her. She knew that. She didn’t have to calculate surface area or muscle power or anything. Logic, common sense, she wouldn’t fly.

But she started to swing.

She wasn’t calm. She wasn’t panicked. She was just herself, and her wings, dried wings that seemed lighter now, stretched out. She could feel the wind pushing against her thin wings, but they were thick, strong, and she stretched them out, butterfly wings without either feathers or leather, but beautiful all the same.

They caught the light, she could feel them, and if she looked back, they sent down a translucent color on the dirty floor.

A world without peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches.

Freedom.

She swung powerfully, and with a small gasp, she let go, almost without thinking, almost without hesitation. She stretched outwards and she was over the fence, and she flapped her wings, and went to a world that was her own.

Second place was a tie between Sophist and PlaToniCs (formerly sometimes broken).

Sophist

Las Mariposas


Every day, the viejo could be found in the plaza. He laid out a blanket, worn and frayed, and set out some trinkets that no one would ever buy. Emilio would watch sometimes as the older boys would make fun of the viejo, sometimes tossing pebbles at him when they dared, until the dueña of the restaurant nearby would come out and shoo them away with a broom.

The viejo spied him, watching from under the makeshift shade of his mamá’s puesto, and motioned for him to come. Emilio looked at his mamá, busy making papel picado. He slowly came over, looking at the ground.

“Siéntate mijo. You want some mango?” he asked, cutting the ripe, sweet smelling fruit with a pocket knife.

Emilio looked at his mamá, and turned back to nod his head. The viejo patted the blanket next to him, and cut a slice for Emilio. Emilio sat where he patted, and held his knees to his chest. Pleased, the man handed him a slice.

“You know what tomorrow is?” the viejo asked, smiling, showing some missing teeth.

Emilio shook his head.

“El Día de los Muertos. It’s when our loved ones come back from heaven to visit.”

“That’s not gonna happen,” claimed Emilio, mango juice dribbling down his chin. “They’re already dead!”

“No, it’s true,” said the viejo, chuckling. “It’s because they miss us so much. And they also are very hungry.”

Emilio’s eyes became very wide.

The viejo laughed so hard he began to cough. Finally he got his breath back. He grinned and said, “Don’t worry mijo, all they want are some fresh tamales, not a skinny little cachorro like you.”

“I’m not skinny!” said Emilio, visibly relieved that he would not be the main course.

The viejo popped another slice of mango in his mouth, and said between bites, “Did you know those butterflies that come every year,” he stopped to lick his lips, “…are the souls of the dead?”

“…they are?” said Emilio, beginning to tremble.

“Ay, cálmate. They can’t hurt you, all they can do is look pretty. Oye, make sure you honor them, eh? And when I die, will you put posole in your ofrenda for me? I really love posole…” he said wistfully, and he began to cough again.

Emilio nodded, and got up. “Thank you for the mango,” he mumbled, and ran back to his mama. He ran so fast that he bumped into the side of the puesto, shaking it dangerously.

“Ay, ¡Emil! ¿Qué pasa?” exclaimed his mamá. But he had already started running home. “That boy…” she muttered, shaking her head.

"¿Sabes qué, Pilar?" said the older woman seated next to her, scanning the busy market. "That boy runs around like the devil is after him."

"Que no, mamá..." muttered Pilar, trying hard not to roll her eyes.


***
“Come on skinny! You better do it!” snarled Juan. The other boys taunted Emilio, laughing at him.

“No! My mamá will…” began Emilio.

“What will your mamá do? She gonna wrap us in papel picado and give us away to the gypsies?” joked Juan, and the other boys howled with laughter.

Emilio stared at the ground.

“Oye,” said Juan, “you take a peak at Rosario and wait ‘til she finishes her bath. Then you can sneak in the house and steal her perfume. Everyone knows she lives alone ’cause she thinks Jesús will tuck her in every night!”

This was too much for the other boys. One started crying, he was laughing so hard. “Juan, you know you’re going to hell, right?”

Juan just grinned.

“OK, I’ll do it, if you promise to leave me alone,” said Emilio.

“Yeah, yeah, ok,” said Juan. “Remember, she always takes a bath at eight o’clock.”

Later that night, Emilio snuck into the orchard behind her house. He was the only one small enough to fit underneath the lowest cross-section of the fence surrounding it. The other boys waited in the dark, eyes wide in anticipation, or fear.

Emilio climbed a stool against the back wall, and peaked in through a hole in the wall, as the humble shack was made of makeshift planks put together.

There was Rosario, lying in the tub. Her hair the color of dulce de leche shined as if from another world. Her doe eyes were downcast as she slowly ran some soap up and down her arm.

Emilio blushed. She was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.

There was a fluttering noise, and he stifled a scream, thinking he had been caught. He looked up, and hundreds of monarchs flooded the bathroom from the vent in the ceiling. They swarmed around Rosario, caressing her with their feather soft wings. Rosario leaned back, and opened her arms to them. She was lifted from the tub, and they faded away into a golden dust. Emilio jumped back from the wall and fell onto the ground. He ran as fast as his legs could carry him, and the other boys chasing him with sticks could not catch up with him.

Rosario was never seen again.

***

Emilio lay in bed that night, thinking of what the viejo had told him. The crickets sang their usual lullaby to him, the night caressing him through his open window.

But he could not fall asleep.




---


las mariposas: the butterfly
viejo: old man
dueña: owner
puesto: stall in a market
papel picado: decoratively cut paper made for special events
siéntate: sit down
cálmate: calm down
oye: listen
El Día de los Muertos: the day of the dead. It´s a Mexican holiday where the deceased loved ones are believed to come back and be with their family. It´s a happy holiday to remember the deceased and celebrate their memory.
ofrenda: offering. They put ofrendas on the altar for the deceased.
cachorro: puppy
tamale: meat and vegetables with sauce wrapped in flour made with corn. It's baked in the husk. Really good!
posole: A traditional mexican soup. It's also good!
¿Sabes que? : you know what?

sometimes broken

Jack's Box or, if you rather, Jack in the Box



The night was darker than he thought it would be. The chilly air stung at Jack’s face, like so many tiny wasps. Cold drifted through his veins like butterflies fluttering through a sunny sky. How Jack wished he was there, with the butterflies, instead of here, with the fog and the trashcans and the inky black alley. He was supposed to be meeting someone here, but hey, who knew if that would work out?

He cursed his stupidity over and over. Who would fall for such a stupid-

(Though, if he was honest, he would admit that he loathed saying it,)

-junk e-mail?

He had discovered it three days ago, buried in his inbox. He had no idea why it had caught his eye, especially when he noticed that the list of recipients stretched on for forever. He didn’t even remember the sender’s email address.

The advertisement, so odd he couldn’t look away, lead him to bounce an email back. It had read “Everything you ever wanted in one small box!” followed by a request for interested parties to do just as he did, and send a message in return.

Suddenly, from the darkness, a figure emerged. And that is exactly what seemed to happen. The man on the other side of the ally had simply materialized, with shreds of night sky seeming to cling to his clothes, as if they were merely burrs. Butterflies of darkness floated around him, and as he walked-

(Well, “walked” isn’t exactly the right word. Maybe “drifted” or “hovered”)

-chills ran up Jack’s spine. He regretted his decision more than ever. What if this box contained some insane black market commodity? Something like that could get Jack into serious trouble with the law, and this just wouldn’t fly. He decided that it was necessary to call the whole thing off, before someone got-

(He didn’t even know why this came to him,)

-hurt. The man was wearing dark, dark clothes, black jeans maybe, and definitely some kind of top with a hood. The hood was drawn, almost closed, around his face.

“Hey, man, I think I’ve changed my mind. I’m just going to go back home, and we can forget this ever happened.” Jack was shaking in his boots as the man came closer.

Frosty air seeped from the man’s mouth as he began to reply. His voice sounded just as cold, if not colder, than the December air.

“Oh, Jack, you don’t want to disappoint me, do you? Besides, I think you’ll find that cancellation is quite impossible. You’re in too deep.” With this, the man was finally standing directly in front of Jack. Jack’s blood turned to ice, frozen in his veins, or so it seemed. Jack turned to run, but instead of the long alley he distinctly remembered seeing earlier, there was merely a brick wall.

The man began to laugh. It was the kind of sound that you would rather become deaf than ever hear again. It was the kind of sound that could stop a butterfly's heart cold, emptying the colors from its wings. It was a gruesome sound.

Jack felt a warm wetness trickling down his legs-

(Judge him as you will, but I guarantee that if you had seen this man, you probably would have pissed yourself as well,)

-and the man began to laugh even louder.

Suddenly, the hideous cackling just cut off.

“So,” the man breathed, “don’t you want to see what you came all this way for? Your greatest desires will come to light, tonight, Jack.”

With a start-

(Though he probably should have remembered it sooner,)

-Jack realized that never once had he revealed his name, not even in emails. More than anything, Jack just wanted to go home.

The man eased his bony fingers into the folds of his black clothing and drew out a box. It was a simple box, a crystalline silver color, with a decorative black butterfly adorning the top. It wasn’t large, in fact, for a box that was supposed to hold Jack’s every desire, it was much too small.

The man held the box to Jack, offering it, a gift. Jack noticed that the man’s hand appeared to have been badly burned at some time or another. The scarring was so bad that the hand probably should have been amputated. With a chill, Jack realized that there was another explanation for such a disfigurement. A hand that had been rotting would look the same way.

Nevertheless, Jack took the box, hoping that with this the transaction would be completed and he would be able to leave. However, the man motioned for Jack to open the box.

Every cell in Jack’s brain was screaming for him to stop before it was too late, before he did something that he would regret later. Still, he fingered the tiny latch, holding the box closed. Unclasping it, he slowly, cautiously, started easing back the lid.

Inside, to Jack’s complete astonishment, he found absolutely nothing. No beating heart, no small yet vicious animal crouched to attack, no bloody knife. He wasn’t-

(As he had to remind himself occasionally,)

-a character in a horror movie. Jack looked up, confused, at the man who had frightened him so.
He had not turned away. Maybe Jack’s imagination was getting the best of him. Maybe he had been mistaken about the events.

The wetness staining his pant leg told a different story. As did the still rotten hand beckoning Jack to peer inside the box again.

This time, Jack looked closely, inspecting the hinges, the clasp, and finally, the bottom of the box. Jack gasped.

Somehow, he could see straight through the bottom of the box! Squinting-

(It was still dark out, of course,)

-he realized that what lay through the glassy bottom was not his shoes, but instead, what appeared to be a scene from some other reality. Jack could see what looked like a miniscule version of himself. Instead of the December night, it appeared to be a mid-April day, sunny and bright.

Suddenly, Jack noticed a distinct change in the lighting around him. The bottom of the box became opaque, and Jack looked up. Incomprehensibly, Jack was inside of the box.

He was standing in front of a modest two story house. The lights in the upstairs windows were on, and Jack could see someone moving around in one of-

(What he assumed were,)

-the bedrooms. A walkway led to the door, lined by flowers and frequented by dozens of butterflies. Jack was stunned.

The front door opened with a bang. A woman stood, backlit by a cheery hallway leading to the rooms beyond, and looked at Jack for several seconds before rushing, bare feet pounding on the bricks, and finally coming to rest in his arms.

Jack stared straight into the house, too happy for words. His free hand-

(The one not holding the box,)

-drifted up to stroke the auburn hair of his late wife.

“Chelsea?” he murmured, tears running down his face.

“Honey!” her voice was the epitome of pleasant cheer. “You’re home early today!”

She lead him into the house without really looking at him. The way she might have done if she had not been killed in an automobile accident. The anniversary of the event had been fast approaching, Jack realized idly. He allowed her to sit him down at a large white oak table, adjacent to a yellow painted kitchen.

To Jack’s complete and utter delight, his son came bustling down the hallway, apparently having smelled the same delicious looking pot pie that was currently sitting in front of Jack, steaming on a perfect white ceramic plate.

Jack stood. He wanted nothing more than to hold the small boy in his arms, finally, after so long. He had been only seven years old when he was taken, killed in the same crash that had parted
Jack and Chelsea.

Upon realizing that he still had the small box, clutched in his white-knuckled hand, he dropped it, as to better hold on to his boy.

As soon as the box left his hand, however, he realize that he was no longer standing in that yellow kitchen in the modest, two story house, lined by butterfly adorned gardens. He was in the alleyway, surrounded by trash cans, and faced with a man who was nothing if not Satan himself.

The box was nowhere in sight.

“So, Jack, did you enjoy your box?”

Jack sank to his knees, sobbing. He was crying so hard that he began to choke on his own tears. Coughing, spluttering, and wishing so hard, that he could just go back.

“Was that not enough, Jack? You seem… ungrateful.” The man’s demeanor had not changed. It infuriated Jack, that this man could be so, so, cold when Jack was hurting so, so badly. Butterflies of anger crawled down his arms, and his fists clenched. “Oh, no, Jack, that won’t be necessary,” and with those solemn words, Jack’s anger dissipated.

“Can I get back there?” His voice shook, he was anything but sure of himself.

“Oh, Jack, I’m afraid there’s just no way. Well… unless… hmm. I take that back. There is one way.” It sounded like bait to Jack, but at this point, he just didn't care.

“I’ll do anything! Just tell me, tell me now, what do I have to do?” Jack would have gone to the end of the world and back to return to that lovely unreality.

“Step forward, my friend. Come closer, and all will be revealed to you.”

Completely at the wraith’s mercy, Jack forced himself to his feet and stumbled into death’s cold embrace.

In third place is Scriptwriter Mika! Because of space constrictions, I couldn't quote it in this post, but check out her story, it's very nice!


Honorable Mentions are Pretty Lettuce and WishingBunny!

Pretty Lettuce

The Tattoo

All I remember is that she had a tattoo of a butterfly on her wrist, a bright blue creation with purple flecks and an ace on each wing. Clearly not impossible in real life, but evolution would have to be pretty lucky to come up with that on its own.
She turned up in class one day to speak to me about her son, a prattling little boy who thought his opinions on 'To Kill a Mockingbird' out ranked mine just because he hadn't spent most of his adult life teaching prattling little boys like him and I had.
She stormed in, the butterfly not the cause of this little cyclone, demanding to know why I had called her son 'A smug little thinks-he-knows-it-all with all the intellectual talent and dexterity of wet cabbage'.
The butterfly, the impossible (yet not unlikely) creation sat on her wrist, almost hidden by a clash of large silver and gold bracelets (reminding me she was a mum). It distracted me from her tirade, I barely heard her screaming rant and my concern was only held by the butterfly.
It wasn't impossible for a butterfly to be blue or purple, I had seen them pinned to a board at a natural history museum, but would a butterfly ever get an 'ace' by accident of genetics? Just luck of shapes and patterns, like those pictures of Jesus or Mary that crop up on toasted cheese snacks. Maybe this woman found it and moulded it perfectly to her skin.
Finding a butterfly with aces on its wings, that'd be lucky wouldn't it? Maybe those American soldiers (so obsessed with the ace of spades) in Vietnam would have used this butterfly as a mascot. Maybe they would have liked a mascot that could cause storms? Or maybe their macho posturing would not have let them use something as feminine as a butterfly.
I let her talk, let her talk, it’s probably best to let her go on. Even her son is looking bored at this point. Her tattoo is interesting though.

WishingBunny

"Innocence"


"What are you guys doing, Bry?"

"Go away, Em." Bryan waved her away and shook his net.

The girl's lower lip quivered, and for a split second Bryan was sure she was going to cry.

Stupid Emma. Why do all little sisters have to tag along? "Don't be a crybaby. Go back inside and bake cookies or something," Bryan said.

"I just wanted to see what you guys were doing," she told him as her mouth slowly slunk into a frown.

Will picked up one of the numerous jars sprawled in front of the lawn. "See this, Em? We're catching butterflies."

Emma’s eyes grew round. “Butterflies?” she asked incredulously. “Aren’t they hard to catch? And how many have been caught so far?”

“That’s a lot of questions,” Jack told her as he carefully swung down his net over the flowerbed.

“Nice one, Jack,” Bryan said. “That’s a monarch, I think.”

“Wait—how come you’re catching butterflies?” Emma bounced up and down as she poked her brother.

Bryan sighed. “Emma, boys are boys. I’m your older brother. I’m eleven. You’re eight. Big age gap. Big difference in hobbies. Will you please shut up now?”

“If you don’t tell me why you’re catching butterflies, I’m telling Mom.”

Will, Jack, and Bryan exchanged glances. Bryan grinded his teeth.

“Well?” Emma said. She put her hands on her hips and made a clucking sound with her tongue.

“We’re catching butterflies as a sport,” Jack fibbed. “You know, like catching fish but letting them go at the end.”

“You’re going to let them go?”

“Yeah,” Will assured.

“Can I watch?”

Will and Jack turned to Bryan for the answer.

“Ugh, Emma, you’re driving me insane. If you’re going to stay then be quiet. I’m trying to make sure I’m not going to trample on Mom’s flowerbed.” Bryan counted the jars of butterflies and looked towards his friends. “We have five of them,” he said with a grin.

“You have five butterflies? I want to release two of them!” Emma reached for a jar and Bryan pried it out of her fingers.

“Emma, we’re going to let them out after we’re done playing with them,” Will promised. After we’re done dissecting one.

Emma’s eyelids lowered so Bryan could barely see the green irises of her eyes. “You’re all lying to me. You’re not going to let them go, are you?”

“EMMA!” Bryan waved his hands like a maniac. “If you don’t hush, I’m going to dig up worms and force-feed them to you while you’re sleeping.”

The girl’s lips puckered.

“Good girl,” Bryan said as he rolled his eyes.

Jack unscrewed the lid of a jar containing a butterfly with robin-egg blue wings. “Should we experiment on this one?”

“Yeah,” Bryan said. He pulled out a pair of gardening gloves from his pocket, and slipped them over his fingers.

Will casually glanced back at Emma. She scrutinized her brother suspiciously.

Bryan stuck his hand into the jar and carefully clasped his fist over the butterfly’s left wing. “Wow, the wing is so glossy! It’s like holding saran wrap!”

Jack laughed. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Bryan slipped off his left glove and tossed it to Jack. “Hold the other wing. It’s really cool.”

Jack grasped the other wing and the butterfly quivered. It tried to flap its wings and Jack held on tighter.

“You’re both hurting it!” Emma cried. “Stop it! Let them go!”

“Will, you gotta try touching the wings. They’re so cool!” Bryan said as he ignored her. Stupid little sister.

“No thanks, Bry. I’ll just watch.” Will held the jar containing the monarch. The butterfly was laying limply at the bottom of the jar. Poor thing.

“This is getting boring now. Let’s try drowning the butterflies,” Jack said as Bryan took a sip from his water bottle.

“Good idea, Jack.”

Jack cupped his hands with the lovely blue insect captive in it, and Bryan poured the water over it.

Emma’s jade eyes flew open wide. “You’re killing it!” she screeched. She pushed her brother on the back and Bryan fell onto the lawn.

“Leave us alone!” Bryan yelled. He scrambled to his feet and grabbed his sister by the scruff of her shirt. By then Emma had already unscrewed the lid of another healthy but captive butterfly. Angrily Bryan shoved her onto the ground and Emma fell face first onto the grass.

Tears streaked her face and Jack tossed the dead butterfly with robin’s egg blue wings down. The wings fidgeted twice before completely stilling.

“Look what you did,” Emma wailed. “You’ve killed it! You killed that gold one in that jar too!” She grabbed his arm and shook it, pleading for him to stop.

Bryan yanked her off his arm. “So? It’s just a butterfly. It’s an insect. So what if it’s dead? So what?”


Moral: Little kids are innocent and remain innocent as long as killing a “pest” is a crime.

All the prizes are being sent out promptly! Accept those trades, people! ^^

[Jasper Riddle]

Didn't win. Ah well. The person who won first place deserved to. Good show.

[Aint No Elvis]

Oh gawds, thank you! That seriously pleases me, I worked really hard on that entry. Though, addmitedly, I'm a bit surprised.

The first place story was brilliant, and certainly deserved to win.

Thanks, DC, and congradulations to all the other winners! heart

[Bastemhet]

Thanks. I really didn't expect it to win anything. rofl heart

[Meepels]

Condradulamations, peoples!!! I loved all these stories. ^-^ Carousel has the best contests.

[WishingBunny]

Oh, thank youus~
Congratulations and good job everyone!

[DaBonster]

Congrats, winners! This seems like it was really hard to judge, so I'm not surprised by some tie-age. Can you give us a hint what page to look for the long one on? The one that was too long to quote? Just curious. And lazy, obviously. redface

[Decrepit Carousel]

This is the third place story by Scriptwriter Mika!

Scriptwriter Mika

The Caretaker

Unlike Dad’s funeral, Mother’s funeral was bright and sunny. It was also amazing just how many people came to see her for the last time, to see her off in a way. And as I sat in my seat, waiting for the priest to finish his blessings, I looked back and reflected on my time spent with Mother as her caretaker in her last years. It was going to be my turn to make a speech on Mother soon but what to say? What could I say? To those that don’t know my mother or me our lives might have seemed perfect at first. It did seem perfect before things fell apart.

But if there is one thing I’ve learned in life, it’s that no body has a perfect life, nobody. If life is like a game to some people, then it’s not an easy game at all. Take monopoly, someone might start off with a lot of money. They have the right jobs, the right family, they have the perfect life. Then, by pure chance, they land on a bankrupt square and lose everything. But life, unlike monopoly, doesn’t give you a second chance. You have what you have and if something goes wrong, you can’t just say “it’s just a game”. Life always has an ending, whether it’s good or bad, the ending always comes—in the form of death. Thinking back now, could I have made her ending any different? Could I have alleviated her pain just a little more? If I hadn’t said those things on that day…would she have stayed? Mother…did you find happiness with dad in the afterlife?

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My mother gave me an American name: Maxie. But I am a full Vietnamese woman, Maxie Tam is my full name. I grew up in a normal household with wonderful parents. Unlike my mother, I was rather tall for an Asian girl with slightly wavy black hair. I was blessed, looking back on that, truly and deeply blessed. Being the only daughter made both of them extremely protective of me, and now that I think of it, extremely proud of me as well. At least, I hope they were. I remember that despite me having an American name, I still had to learn the Vietnamese language. That was something neither of my parents were going to let slide if I didn’t pick that up. I grew up with a normal childhood with normal milestones. It wasn’t until I was sixteen that things started to change, more accurately, my mother started to change.

My mother was a proud woman, and a proud high school history teacher. (Though I made her swear that she wouldn’t make me go to the high school she taught at. Having a teacher as a mother there was just too weird for me back then.) Despite her height, despite her innocent demeanor, she was without a doubt, a force to be reckoned with. Her black hair was cut short in her later years, and sprinkled with some gray here and there, but she was always so full of life. That was the major contrast between her and Dad. He was always quiet; she was always loud and opinionated. It was amazing how they fit so well together and how they got together. Mother was always touchy when it came to discussing how they met because it usually meant bringing in her own family history. But that is a different story.

When it begin? I know it began that sixteenth year of my life, but when was the first sign of it? Was it that morning when mother forgot where her car keys were? It seemed like such a small thing back then but maybe I should have seen it as the beginning of her troubles to come. It was my mother after all, my mother that never forgot anything. Mother that remembered everyone’s birthdays and remembered where everything in the house was.

That morning I was just getting ready for school as usual. I gathered my books on my desk in front of the window and noted that there was a caterpillar on a tree branch that was tapping at the glass. When I came downstairs I found mother frantically searching through the laundry. She went through jackets, shirts, pants, and dad’s underwear. To me, it was pretty amusing back then. All I suspected was that she didn’t get her coffee, because lord knows mother couldn’t function without that caffeine, or she didn’t get enough sleep. In the end, to both her astonishment and mine, she found that her keys were still in her pocket.

When she forgot those keys, we both brushed it off; we even gave a small laugh together at it. A simple lapse in memory couldn’t mean anything right? Perhaps I should have paid more attention to the fact that she didn’t just forget the keys’ location, but she forgot they were called car keys.

“That, metal thing that you plug into the car to make it start…” were her words that morning. Back then she had a flustered and frustrated look on her own face because she couldn’t remember the right term for it. Should I…should I have suspected something was wrong with mom then? But as I look back on that morning, even if I did know, there was no way I could have stopped it. Knowing the future can’t help someone change it.

It wasn’t until my mother got lost driving home one day that we really began to worry. Let me tell you something about mom…she might not be able to tell someone directions to our house in her lifetime, but when she drove, she knew where she was going. And driving from work to home for over five years and suddenly getting lost one day did have cause for worry.

It wasn’t just worry either; it made me down right terrified. Both dad and I were pacing around like crazy on that one night. And when mother finally did come home, at nine at night, relief had washed over me that time. At that point, I wasn’t worried about a mental disease that would ravage my mother’s mind later on—I was worried about a car accident.

And it’s funny how parents are always so good at covering their troubles. What was mother’s excuse back then again? Right, she made a wrong turn on the freeway, missed an exit realized too late. It seemed so typical of mother then that I bought the excuse. With a hug, some milk and cookies, I was placated and no longer worried. I just didn’t realize that that was the first crack in the foundation of this family.

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Have you ever seen someone cry before? And I mean really cry and break down. The tears, the red yes, the sobs all contribute to that look of utter defeat. At age 16 around May 25th at 5:00 P.M. , Mother got back from the doctor's appointment. She had been there all day. I knew from the moment I opened that door that there was something deadly wrong—because of the silence. Mother was never silent about these things unless something bad had happened. She never pointedly ignored me like that time as she brushed pass me, not looking at me, just headed up into her room. It was as though the roles were being reversed, she was the child that was lost and needed someone and not the mother.

I looked at Father for an explanation. He sighed and took me aside. “Maxie, your mother, she’s been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease,” he said softly. And something in his eyes told me he was hurting inside. Those black eyes teared up, and I knew he was serious. Dad never cried without reason after all.

“They say,” he continued, “they say she might have five or ten years.” This time he did look away from me and seemed to face the wall. In one daft movement, he punched it, hard. I went up to him in alarm and grabbed his arm back, examining the hand to make sure it was okay.

Dad’s face seemed tired, more tired than usual. His short black hair was messy, as though he had run his hand through it a lot in the last few hours. A sign of his unease. “It’ll be okay,” I whispered, “we’ll get through it together.” He seemed to take heart at my words and gave me a shaky smile.

But after waiting for about ten minutes for mom to come down, we grew worried. She was still upstairs in her room, not saying a word. Dad was the one that moved first, climbing up the stairs to her room. He knocked on the door once…nothing. He tried again, louder this time, still nothing. This time he banged on the door, so he knew she could hear. I joined once we both realized she wasn’t getting up to open it.

“Rose, open up. Open the door now, or we will knock it down, and you know we’re capable of it,” came my father’s firm but calm voice. Then we heard a soft shuffling of mom’s feet. The door slowly came open and we both hugged her before she could stop us.

“Why? Why are you doing this? I’ll just forget you sooner or later, why don’t, why don’t you just send me to one of those nursing homes like the doctors suggested!” mom screamed at us. The words hit me hard, how could mom have thought of that? Moreover, Mom was breaking down. She never broke down before. She rarely cried let alone sob like that. I didn’t know what to do except keep holding onto her. Mom looked like she would break if she didn’t have support of some kind. Back then, I didn’t know the kind of work required to take care of a person. I didn’t realize how easy it would be for families to ready agree to send one of their own off to these centers.

“We’ll get through this together Mom,” I told her. Back then, it felt like the right words. Back then, it felt like I could always be there for her.

“You think we’d actually leave you? You’d probably hunt us down with an angry mob if we were to leave. We love you,” father told her in a gentle tone. And we stayed that way for a while.

I wish…I wish we could have kept that promise to Mom. But despite how strong these bonds seemed, there were always ways for them to break or bend. We—as a family—could not always be together. That was the way the world worked, it was never fair.

But in that moment it was alright. We were so optimistic back then, nothing, nothing could keep the Tam family down. We would always find a way to support one another. I would find out that logic was both irrational and yet completely right later on.

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Life continued as usual. I went off to college while my parents decided to tour the world. This is the part I’m not very proud of. I was ashamed of my mother in college. I loved her, yes, but I didn’t want to reveal her condition to anyone. I was still young and I thought if people knew that my mother would eventually be reduced to a vegetable, I would be shunned. I was afraid of rumors. I was afraid of gossip and I was afraid of pity. So whenever the topic of parents came up, I said as little as possible. I said my family was normal, perfectly normal, and mentioned nothing about mom’s condition. The need to fit in, to be accepted was what was solely in my mind.

At my graduation, both of my parents attended. Mother, as though she knew what I was thinking said a polite hello to everyone around her. She didn’t talk much and never mentioned anything about herself. When I walked up on that stage about to receive my diploma, I saw my parents’ eyes. Mother and Father looked at me with such joy and pride that I—I felt so ashamed of my actions. Tears pooled at my eyes when I took that piece of paper.

When it was over and the graduates were asked to stand up once more, I could still she mom and dad, cheering, clapping for me. Mom cried that time because she lived to see me get my diploma. I wondered if she knew I was terrified of people finding out about her. I wonder if she knew my discomfort back then with the subject. These are some of the questions that seem to continue to plague me even now as I look back.

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A while after my graduation; my family attended a Christmas party together. Well, it was my family, me, and my date. I had recently started going out with David, a boy in my college that always seemed to make me laugh. He was tall, blonde, a dream guy if you will with those blue eyes that twinkled at you. But putting him aside, it was at that party that I began to see the toll the illness was putting on Mother.

She was a lot quieter, that was the biggest noticeable difference. The time at home I spent with made me realize that mom now forgot a lot of things. She forgot to lock the door when she left the house with someone. She forgot she left something on the stove. She forget names, faces of people she once knew. These were small things to some people, but they build up over time. My mom, who was always so independent, was now like a child, depending on others.

But what really made me aware of this fact were the whispers around me. These were people that had caught on to the gossip and at every gathering the words and rumors flew. Whispers of pity were thrown here and there. A few people mocked mom others just didn’t know what they were talking about. Humans often critique the flaws in others, even if it isn’t their fault.

Does anyone ever ask to be stricken with such a condition? When I look back, I find it terribly ironic that we as humans are so afraid of contracting this or that disease, but we poke fun at those that are unfortunate enough be affected by those very diseases that we fear.

But that day, Mom showed me that despite what she had gone through, she still had the strength to see life through to the end. Mom had always loved to sing a little her and there. She and dad were also old Disney freaks. (I never got into Disney in my youth, maybe because it was weird having Disney fanatics as parents. Seriously, they had every single film ever made by the company. And all the soundtracks and all the song books.) Dad spotted a piano nearby led Mom to there and she began to see what one of her favorite songs was: “Candle on the Water” from Pete’s Dragon. The rippling voice of my mother broke throughout the room. At first her voice sputtered at the beginning, unsure, uneven. As the song progressed, she gained strength and confidence once more.

But around the middle part of the song, mom began to falter once more. A look of confusion started spreading across her face. I went away from David’s side and began to go over to mother looking at father. We both had the same idea. At the next part of the song we both started singing. Soon, all three voices blended together to finish the song as a family. People watched us as we sang a children’s song as though they weren’t there. We didn’t care about the others then because what we had created was a little bubble in between the three of us. In that bubble it was safe and happy. I’ll never let you go…were the final words and notes. I never wanted to let go of that wonderful family.

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Every person has their own personal strength. It is this inner strength that allows them to overcome many obstacles within their lives. However, that strength has to come from somewhere, it can’t just exist on its own. Mom always seemed to have this amazing inner power to me. Despite what life threw at her, she kept going. However, even mom had her breaking point.

The next day, when she and dad went out shopping, there was an accident. When crossing the street to get to Mother, my father was hit by a car going at forty miles an hour. The driver was careless, dropping his cell phone and not breaking or slowing down in time. My mother blamed herself for the incident. For so long, despite the fact that her mind was slowly falling apart, my mom always had this…this light in her eyes. I don’t know how to describe it but it made her seem like she was ready to go against the world, in anything. When my dad died, the light died with him.

Many people don’t believe in soul mates or true love but I believe that my parents had that. They loved each other deeply and simply. It wasn’t a complex relationship but it was deep and profound. They were two halves of each other, complimenting and completing each other. So when Dad was taken away, Mom was left with a hole and void within her. The big question after this was, who would Mom stay with now? Dad was gone so that left—me.

I felt it was my duty as her daughter back then. The logic was simple, mom had already given so much of her life to supporting me, why shouldn’t I support her now? I loved her and she was the only family that I had left. Of course, there were several people that didn’t agree with me. My mom’s side of the family wanted to take care of her too, but I knew she couldn’t be with any of them. There was still a lot of pain there for her. My father’s side of the family would have done it too but mom adamantly refused. Those relatives would remind her too much of what she had just lost. So that left me, her daughter. Thinking on that, I think she would have refused me too if I didn’t insist.

“Mom, I’m…I’m not going to medical school. I’ve decided to become a nurse, I have the degree already. This way, I can take care of you,” I whispered to mom at the funeral giving her hand a squeeze. We were the only ones left in the rain, looking at Dad’s new tombstone.

“You shouldn’t give up your dream because of me,” was my mother’s tired answer.

“You’re more important, you’re family,” I insisted drawing the frail woman into a hug. I told myself I would do it, I would take care of mother without complaint and with love.

“Sometimes, sometimes another candle needs to go out for the others to shine,” Mom had told me cryptically. I was confused at those words during that time. I didn’t understand what my mother meant and it was not until much later that I would.
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We settled into a routine. I would wake up, make breakfast, go to work, come home for lunch, go back to work and come home for dinner. I never let mom do any of the work because she couldn’t. At this point many everyday activities had become a challenge for her. And the mother I knew was disappearing. She didn’t talk anymore, just at her meals and went to her room. I know for a fact that all she did in the room was stare out the window. She just stared and stared.

My life revolved around making sure she would be okay. I never went out with friends anymore. I never got another boyfriend. (Me and David had broken up when I simply didn’t have time for him anymore.) I no longer had a social life. Inside, I knew that was killing me. I was a people person, I loved interacting with others. I cared about others and wanted to be a part of a group. I wanted to see human life but I…I couldn’t. I justified each day to myself, always telling myself that it’s all for mom. It would be alright because Mom’s done a lot for me already. I wanted it to be alright for both her and me.

What I didn’t realize was that resentment was starting to build up within me. My job was stressful and when I came home Mom just didn’t talk anymore. It was like being forced to watch after a prisoner. And then it happened…I snapped. You see, I was still used to viewing Mom as this strong iron will woman who would never let anything get her down. In my mind, Mom hadn’t changed at all—when in reality she had.

That day that I managed to really see what mom had become, I couldn’t take it. I was already tired from work and I came home to find the kitchen filled with smoke. Mom was in the living room watching T.V. as though nothing were wrong. It wasn’t until I came home that she looked shocked and looked towards the cooking area that I knew something was very, very wrong. A pot was setting on the stove, with nothing in it, and it was smoking. There were bits of unfinished chopped food on the counter. The chicken broth was out, the noodle packages were out, and I realized, Mom was trying to cook something.

I guess I should have appreciated the gesture. I should have been touched by the effort but that day my frustration had peaked. Slamming the pot in the sink I ran cold water over it, getting it to cool down. I opened windows to let the smoke out and then, without looking at mother, I fled up the stairs into my room. I didn’t think she’d follow me, so I left the door slightly opened and unlocked.

At first nothing happened, I was trying to calm down, repeating my mantra of “it’s okay” over and over again—but it wasn’t okay. That woman…that wasn’t mom. Mom never forgot the stove. Mom always cooked things well and chopped everything finely and…and…that wasn’t her! Mom wasn’t quiet and isolated, she was loud and brash with opinions on everything! Mom didn’t keep me chained, she wanted me to be happy!

“Why! What did you do with my mother!” I shouted at someone, anyone. I wanted everything to be a nightmare so badly. I wanted to be able to wake up and see my mom, the one I knew again. Do you know what it feels like to watch someone so strong suddenly turn so docile? It hurt, and I never let it out until then.

“I hate this, I hate this woman. She’s not Mom! I care for her, but she’s not Mom! I want my mom,” I continued to sob. I was tired of being a caretaker. I wanted someone to look after me now, at least for a while. I wanted my mother, my mother that would take me into her arms and tell me it was going to be okay. But she was gone now. She was gone, and as my cries subsided I had to accept that. Slowly I wiped my tears away. It was just a silly outbreak after all. I just had to push my own bitterness to the back of my head and bury any resentment. It would be okay, wouldn’t it?

I came out with a smile again towards my mom. I even thanked her for that attempt and I thought…I thought things would be back to normal. How wrong I was.

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The next day I went to work as usual. However, at the hospital and throughout my shift, I couldn’t help but get the feeling that something was going to happen. Mom was still there at lunch, but even then the atmosphere seemed off. When I went home after my shift for dinner, I walked rapidly to the house, brushing past a leafy bush with a cocoon hanging from one leaf, and opened the door.

“Mom? I’m home,” I called out. No answer, no stirring, no footsteps. Mom might have been secluded now but even she made sounds when coming down to see me for dinner. It was eerily quiet and I began to panic. I went into the kitchen to find a single note on the table: Sometimes a candle needs to go out for another to shine.

I knew then that she had heard me back then. I also knew then, in the back of my head, what those words finally meant, but I wouldn’t acknowledge the meaning until later.

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When my mother left, I became frantic at first. The first year I spent feverishly working and searching at the same time. I called center after center asking for her but no one saw her. No one told me any information—it was as though Mother had disappeared off of the face of the Earth. And so I worked myself into a wreck that year, taking all the overtime hours just so I wouldn’t have to think. It…it hurt to think about that back then. I blamed myself for Mother’s departure. It was my fault for being a bad caretaker, a bad daughter, what kind of daughter denounces her own mother?

It wasn’t until I met Nicholas again that I began “living” once more. Nicholas was with me when I went to college. My group of friends would often call him Nick for short and though we never dated, he was a rather close friend of mine. He was Caucasian, tall, with brown hair and pale green eyes. I remember now that he was always against the idea of me not going to medical school. He told me that I had so much potential—why waste it? I didn’t let any of my friends know about my mother’s condition. Remember the pity factor? Yeah, I didn’t any of that so I just avoided the topic of my parents altogether. But after college we had a falling out of sorts and we just didn’t keep in contact.

That day that I met up with him was one of pure coincidence. It’s funny how I ended up working at the hospital that was right next to his university. Nick went to medical school and as a student, hospital rounds were a common place for him. I recognized him just as soon as I passed through that hallway and he recognized me. We agreed to a lunch date.

That conversation was eye opening, though at first it was just small talking, getting to know one another again. And then it started going downhill when he asked me why I wasn’t in medical school again.

“I just don’t understand. You have potential Maxie, you were smart. Why not?”

“We’ve had this discussion before. I have…family matters.”

And he pressed on…and for the first time, I told my story. I told him everything, from my mother, to when she left, to now. Funny, once I started, I just couldn’t stop. The words came out, shaping the story. The pain and frustration was buried, embedded into the tale. But it was what he asked after that surprised me.

“Why do you feel that you have to find your mother?” was his simple question. At first, I thought, iisn’t it obvious?/i How could he not understand why I wanted to find her?

“What do you mean? I…I need to apologize. And tell her to come home again, tell her that it’s okay and that I love her…what do you mean?” I uttered confused and baffled at his words.

“I don’t believe that your mother left because she was angry at you Maxie. I think she simply left because she didn’t want to be a burden to you,” Nick said quietly.

At that comment—I exploded. I didn’t think he had a right to say that. He didn’t know me or my mother. He didn’t know anything about my problems or the pain I was going through. What right, what right did he have to say those things as though he could pass judgment on me so quickly?

“What…what would you know about it? Anyone could tell she left not to be a burden, but I was the one that made her leave! I told her…I didn’t recognize her as my mother! What kind of a daughter does that?” I burst out, nearly hysterical now. It was a good thing we had lunch outside, other wise there would have been many stares at us. Nick looked like he was about to interrupt and say something but I wouldn’t let him. I was acting like a b***h and I knew it but I that point, I couldn’t have cared less.

“You don’t have a right to say that. You don’t know anything,” I said with venom, “Nick, you probably have the perfect family right now. A family where everyone gets along, where everyone’s happy! So don’t you dare speak as though you knew what my mother was thinking!”

There was a silence between us for a few moments. I had had enough, and I was about to leave when Nick slowly took out a wallet. Flipping it open, he showed me a picture of an old woman. Her hair was curly and white, her face wrinkled but full of kindness. Her smile was one of happiness.

“My grandmother died when I was around 15,” Nick began slowly, his eyes telling me to listen, “I remember her as the typical grandmother. She would bake cookies, help mom cook when she came over, baby sat me and my siblings. She was the normal, wonderful grandmother.” There was a look of wistfulness in his eyes, as though he wanted to go back to those days.

“When I was around 8, she insisted on moving by herself to Oregon. Oregon of all places,” he continued shaking his head with a smile at the thought, “And she was stubborn too. She wouldn’t let us be against it and only let us help her move. As the years went on, my grandmother’s age grew. Her health deteriorated at an alarming rate but she wouldn’t let mom come up to care for her. She forced my parents to enroll her in a nursing home there.” The beginnings of what looked like pain entered his green eyes.

“And then we found out why Oregon of all places. You see, my grandmother suffered from dementia her last few years. She would often get confused, talking to people that weren’t there or people that had died. But she always knew one thing, Oregon was the only state in the US where doctor assisted suicide was allowed,” his last few words were quiet. My eyes were downcast, my own head bowed in shame. I realized that I didn’t know that much about Nick. I never bothered to find out about his own family. I was the one that judged, not him.

“You can guess what happened next,” he said with a sigh. And then he turned to me, and gently touched my shoulder, and lifted my chin so I could face him.

“Maxie, my grandmother left because she didn’t want to become a burden, that’s true. But she also left to preserve the image of the loving grandmother she once would. She didn’t want me or my parents to see her change into someone utterly different, someone that if they were forced to take care, they might grow bitter or even hate her. Your mother didn’t leave because she was angry Maxie, she had already forgiven you for those words. She left because she loved you…and she wanted you to live a life that you wouldn’t regret. Don’t be so quick to think that others won’t understand your pain. Nobody’s life is perfect.” And when he saw my tears forming again, he drew me into an embrace.

I cried for the first time since my mother’s departure. I cried and cried and cried. There was someone who understood, someone that I didn’t think would understand. I could cry, it was okay. Because after that, I stood up once more.

At Nick’s encouragement, I began to live. I still kept my job, but at the same time, I studied for the MCATS. I started applications for medical school. And after taking a grueling test, and waiting month after month after month, I was accepted in medical school. The same one that Nick went to.

My life steadily improved for a few years, in which I found happiness, comfort, and love. It wasn’t until one day, when I was looking with joy at a certain diamond ring on my finger that life changed. On that day, I got a certain phone call.

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“Hello?”

“Is this Maxie Tam?”

“Yes, this is she.”

“I’m calling from the San Francisco Alzheimer’s Center. I’m Mrs. Garret your mother’s caretaker. Your mother asked us to withhold her information from everyone until…until we deemed it close to the day of her death. Can you come see her one last time?”

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Mom must have been psychic to know I would have tried to track her down. That was why she tried very hard to not let anyone see. Nick’s words were coming back to me. She left out of love, not anger or hate. When I arrived at the center I was taken to her room and saw her lying on the bed. Some of the nurses told me at this stage she could not longer talk or walk or do anything on her own. I shouldn’t expect much.

When I saw my mother again for the last time, how do I even describe what I saw? In just a few years, her hair had turned completely white. Her skin was still slightly smoothed but it was apparent that there were more wrinkles on there. Her mouth was a gap, she had lost control over it and couldn’t remember how to shut it.

But it’s her eyes that still haunt me to this very day. They were dull, vacant and empty. Mom no longer recognized who I was. Seeing her in that bed made me realize exactly why she went away. She didn’t want me to see the process of her turning into this—a prisoner of her own mind and body.

I suppose I had been foolish when I was her caretaker back then. I had hoped that if I saw her everyday and took care of her, even when she forgot everyone else, I would still be remembered. Wistful thinking indeed. “Mom?” I said softly. No response, just more vacant staring. I stopped by her bed and slipped my hand into hers. I squeezed lightly three times, trying to send our usual hand signal of “I love you” through.

Still, nothing. I knew in a way it was hopeless but I wanted to get through to her one more time. Just once more I wanted to see my mom again through those empty eyes. The tears started falling again. My voice cracked when I spoke with an urgent tone, “Mom! It’s me, don’t you know me? I’m your daughter! It’s Maxie! Remember? Remember the times we had together with dad?”

A single blink was what I got from her at the mention of father. A blink, it was small, it might not have meant anything, but I grabbed on to it. It was a reaction that much I could bet on. A small bit of hope started lighting up within me and I pressed on. “Mom? Don’t you remember dad? Don’t you remember Michael? The man you married Mom the man you loved.” The tears now fell freely as I tried and tried again. If I could just will my own memories into her, the times we spent as a family, the happy days of my youth. You see, being forgotten is something no one should have to go through. It hurts to be left behind in someone’s mind, or erased. I knew it wasn’t Mom’s fault, I knew I shouldn’t be pressing so hard to convince myself she could still remember. I knew enough about medicine to know what Alzheimer’s did to the brain but as a human and as a daughter, I still felt the bond between mother and I. It was still there, I knew it.

“It’s me! Please, Mother!” I begged of the woman. I sobbed into her bed, still holding her hand. If there was a God, for just one moment, just a moment, let me see her. Let her see me one last time to know that she isn’t alone, and she will never be alone. Please! And then there was a slight pressure on my hand. Once…twice…three times: I love you. Our hand message. I looked up abruptly to see the light in mom’s eyes return once more. She recognized me back then, I know it, and I still feel it in my soul. Those eyes knew who they were looking at.

“Mom,” I began happily. But it didn’t last. As fast as the look had come, it disappeared again within seconds. My smile slipped off of my face into despair once more. She was gone again…those eyes were empty once more.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t even that long. “Mom! No!” I screamed at the injustice. Never mind that I only asked for a few moments but I was selfish. I wanted her to remember longer. I just found her again…and now, there was nothing. And then, I asked myself, why was Mom still in this state? Why did she have to still be alive to endure this? Truly, at this point, I did believe death would have been a better option for Mom.

And I wondered, was it me? Was she still hanging on to this body for me? Waiting to see me once more, to remember once more? Did this bond that I treasured so much, did it keep Mom attached to this cruel fate. I swallowed my tears and put on a smile for her once more. Grabbing her hand again I smoothed out her white hair and held her gently whispering in her ear, “Mom, it’s okay to let go. Dad’s waiting for you. Don’t let me be the one holding you back. Please, go, for me. Be happy, you don’t deserve this kind of life, please.” And slowly my mother’s eyes fluttered. Her breath slowed, her heart monitor started slowing. At the sound of the flat line, I closed her eyes and kissed her brow. When her last breath was taken I could have sworn the air around me felt warmer.

“And I hope and pray that you won’t return to this world, not in this condition. Please find joy in the afterlife mom…” were my final words to that empty body. When I walked out of that room, Nick was waiting for me to take me home. I went to him and wrapped my arms around him. We held each other for a while.

“She’s free,” I whispered tearfully. He hugged me tighter, nodding. Mom was finally free.

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At last, it was my turn to speak about my mom after the priest was done with his words. Looking back on my own life and hers, I knew what I wanted to, what I had to say about mom.

“Thank you for coming to this occasion. When I decided to talk a bit about my mother, I honestly didn’t know what to say to you all. Mother was a proud woman. Strong and rather sarcastic,” I said sheepishly, invoking some grins, “she was never one to reveal a weakness. For so many years she was my own strength, she was my mother. She loved dad, they were an amazing pair.”

“But despite what she gave to so many people, fate, and maybe God wasn’t kind to her. In her middle age, Mother was struck with the news that she was developing Alzheimer’s disease. Before she died, my father died first. But in her last few years, she showed how much she cared about those close to her. Though her memory was slipping, she made efforts to try to remember a name, always carrying a note book with little pictures and names with her,” and my voice started cracking, yet I kept going.

“In her last moments, she showed just how strong her love for me for those close to her was. My mother’s love cannot be described in her pretty or witty words. It could not be measured by any material gifts that she could give others. It was expressed in her actions and her eyes and it was beautiful. Now, at this moment, she is truly free. And I’m sure she can see what support she has built for her over the years. Mother, take a look, this is what your love is giving back to you. These are the people that care and responded to your love and these are the people that hope you are free with Dad. God bless you both. Thank you.”

As I got off the stage, two butterflies flew past me into the sky. Looking at them gave me a sense of warmth and comfort that I just couldn’t explain the reasoning behind. As I spotted my fiancée Nick and slipped by hand into his, I smiled. Mom, I’m going to do it, I’m going to my life. It won’t be perfect, but I won’t regret it.

[Lyana_Yoo]

congrats to the winners...

[Decrepit Carousel]

Well, lovelies, that's that! It's been a fun couple months, and some great things were produced-- many of the stories and poems that didn't place were still amazing. This definitely won't be my last contest-- I'm already dreaming up ideas for the theme of the next one!

So, my last task for you, writers and readers, is to vote in the newly edited poll on what you think the theme for the next contest should be!

And remember, don't become a dead caterpillar. Make good decisions and live to be a butterfly!

[Scriptwriter Mika]

Whoa, that was awesome. ^^ Congrats to all and good job to those that entered!

[Decrepit Carousel]

Pretty Lettuce and Sennen No Yuki have yet to accept their trades! Are their accounts orphaned?

[awalking paradox]

can I still enter?