ManicDDaily

This is about a witch who netted butterflies. 

You’d think that the butterflies would be disturbed by the hover of her broomstick, but the witch had good opera glasses, and so, could spy the butterflies out from even a relative high distance.

She caught them with something akin to a fishing net, wide and slightly weighted.  She was never sure if the mesh were gentle enough, but tried to make up for this by pouring or patting the butterflies into the large bell jars she carried and never actually handling them.

She carried the bell jars in little thatch baskets that were hooked like saddle bags upon each side of her broom, and though they were big jars, she tried never to overcrowd them, even in those days when, for some strange reason, butterflies are magically plentiful.

Once she had an assortment—she called whatever she collected an “assortment, though they were often just swallowtails, she would re-charge the broom stick, meaning she would put her mind to re-energizing its float, and putt putt it back home. This was a decayed tree in the center of the woods that she had outfitted as a studio apartment.

It was, admittedly, a small space—oddly shaped as well—the hollow trunk more like a collapsed column than a room. It was hard, from the outside, to imagine anyone could be very comfortable inside.  But the witch was not just anyone, not at least a human anyone. She could, for example, adjust her size quite easily.  So, once she squeezed the bell jars in the trunk, she miniaturized herself, and easily stepped in too. There, she settled herself on a little divan made of twig and bark, upholstered with moss, and basked in the beauty of the bell jars, whose glass caught the light through the breaks in the dead tree in the most marvelous way. She gloried too in the beauty of the butterflies.

You could call it an immersive experience, though she never actually entered one of her jars.

She did not mean to be cruel.  But there was something about lounging beside the glossy curves of glass and the velvet curves of wing that she could not resist.  

You might ask why she didn’t simply miniaturize herself in one of the gardens she poached—why she didn’t settle herself down besides a host of stems or leaf.  

But she also loved the element of control—the fact that she had captured the butterflies, arranged the jars, made the whole tableau.

You could argue, quite reasonably, that she had not made the butterflies, or, for the matter the jars.  But she was a witch and you would not be wise to make such arguments.

Of course, it is possible that she would answer that she had made her tableaus as much as any artist makes anything—a collage or a painting—

But she might not think to offer such counter arguments.

She might  point out that she always tried to return the butterflies, that butterflies did not live long in any case.

But she might not come up with such justifications either. 

It’s possible that she would simply become very angry.

And it never does to make a witch angry.  Especially not a witch with a net.

********************************************

Here’s a little story today in place of poem! As always, pics are mine. All rights reserved. Thanks for your visit!  Have a good night!

Explore posts in the same categories: Uncategorized

This entry was posted on April 24, 2022 at 8:03 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. You can subscribe via RSS 2.0 feed to this post's comments. You can comment below, or link to this permanent URL from your own site.