The Bitterness of Butterfly Wings
by Dave Clapper
I seldom go to the university's various social functions, though I would if invited. I crave that question that inevitably follows introductions: “What do you teach?”
“I'm a Lepidopterist,” I tell the enquirer, a profession I know isn't familiar to most.
“What's that?” they usually ask.
"I study butterflies." Men typically change the subject at this point. Most women, however, are either interested or feign interest. They usually ask what got me interested in studying butterflies. I tell them something sort of romantic, testing the waters. If one seems interested in the romance of butterflies, I know that this is not the person to whom I may safely confide.
Just once I met a woman who seemed disappointed in the romance of butterflies. It is because of that encounter that I'm rarely invited to social events.
“Can I tell you the real reason?” I whispered to her. Her eyes, which had begun to wander, snapped back to me.
“Yes, please,” she said in an equally low voice.
“It's the powder.”
“On their wings.”
“Yes.”
“I love that powder,” she said. I felt that unique vibration created when energy percolates between two people with similar passions.
“Have you tasted it?” I asked.
She blushed and almost imperceptibly nodded. “It's bitter.”
I grabbed her elbow and steered her to a less crowded room. She didn't resist.
“The first time I caught a butterfly, I was six. As I clasped its wings between my fingers, I heard something awful, something I'd never heard before. My parents were having sex.”
Her eyes widened.
“The sound so distracted and frightened me that I crushed the butterfly in my hands. It was an Anise Swallowtail. To take my mind off the sounds, I focused on the mess on my hands. I could have wiped it on my jeans as most boys would have done, but the experience would have ended with the memory of sounds of my parents. So I licked the Anise from my fingers. Making sure that I didn't miss a single bit of the taste of its various parts.”
“God,” she said.
“It was the powder that stuck with me. Other parts of the Anise could be compared to other tastes I'd encountered, but the wings' powder was unique.”
“Bitter,” she said again.
I hesitated, drew a deep breath. “I have some butterflies in my car,” I said. Her eyelashes moved like moths and I would swear I heard her moan.
Staggering like drunks, we made our way to my battered old Jetta. I removed a satchel from the trunk and selected several specimens. She gasped at each one, but chose a Monarch, that most American of the beauties.
She traced her fingertips gently over its wings and extended her fingers to my lips. I sucked them greedily. She withdrew her fingers, traced them over the orange wings again and coated her own lips with the powder. I tasted them, my heart pummeling.
Several specimens later, as I lapped the emerald of a Queen Victoria's Birdwing from her labia, we were interrupted. A professor's wife had wondered to where her visiting sister had disappeared. She was not happy to find her being ministered to by the odd little associate professor with the thinning hair and an unhealthy obsession with bugs.
I never saw her again. I hope to be given the opportunity again to relate enough romantic versions of why I took up Lepidoptery to make it back onto guest lists. I hold onto the unlikely wish that one day I will meet another woman who shares my appreciation for the bitterness of butterfly wings.
“I'm a Lepidopterist,” I tell the enquirer, a profession I know isn't familiar to most.
“What's that?” they usually ask.
"I study butterflies." Men typically change the subject at this point. Most women, however, are either interested or feign interest. They usually ask what got me interested in studying butterflies. I tell them something sort of romantic, testing the waters. If one seems interested in the romance of butterflies, I know that this is not the person to whom I may safely confide.
Just once I met a woman who seemed disappointed in the romance of butterflies. It is because of that encounter that I'm rarely invited to social events.
“Can I tell you the real reason?” I whispered to her. Her eyes, which had begun to wander, snapped back to me.
“Yes, please,” she said in an equally low voice.
“It's the powder.”
“On their wings.”
“Yes.”
“I love that powder,” she said. I felt that unique vibration created when energy percolates between two people with similar passions.
“Have you tasted it?” I asked.
She blushed and almost imperceptibly nodded. “It's bitter.”
I grabbed her elbow and steered her to a less crowded room. She didn't resist.
“The first time I caught a butterfly, I was six. As I clasped its wings between my fingers, I heard something awful, something I'd never heard before. My parents were having sex.”
Her eyes widened.
“The sound so distracted and frightened me that I crushed the butterfly in my hands. It was an Anise Swallowtail. To take my mind off the sounds, I focused on the mess on my hands. I could have wiped it on my jeans as most boys would have done, but the experience would have ended with the memory of sounds of my parents. So I licked the Anise from my fingers. Making sure that I didn't miss a single bit of the taste of its various parts.”
“God,” she said.
“It was the powder that stuck with me. Other parts of the Anise could be compared to other tastes I'd encountered, but the wings' powder was unique.”
“Bitter,” she said again.
I hesitated, drew a deep breath. “I have some butterflies in my car,” I said. Her eyelashes moved like moths and I would swear I heard her moan.
Staggering like drunks, we made our way to my battered old Jetta. I removed a satchel from the trunk and selected several specimens. She gasped at each one, but chose a Monarch, that most American of the beauties.
She traced her fingertips gently over its wings and extended her fingers to my lips. I sucked them greedily. She withdrew her fingers, traced them over the orange wings again and coated her own lips with the powder. I tasted them, my heart pummeling.
Several specimens later, as I lapped the emerald of a Queen Victoria's Birdwing from her labia, we were interrupted. A professor's wife had wondered to where her visiting sister had disappeared. She was not happy to find her being ministered to by the odd little associate professor with the thinning hair and an unhealthy obsession with bugs.
I never saw her again. I hope to be given the opportunity again to relate enough romantic versions of why I took up Lepidoptery to make it back onto guest lists. I hold onto the unlikely wish that one day I will meet another woman who shares my appreciation for the bitterness of butterfly wings.
I really like the narrator in this. Nice how he sets it up and then finds a person who is interested. The set up is really nice ... although it is way too short and minimal to understand/empathize with the narrator or characters -- as a mechanism the story works fine but I think if it had dense-naturalistic characters it might reveal something underneath what is here. Because of the minimal nature of the story -- great deal of focus then on each work -- I found certain lines a bit redundant, wooden, or stock. "Her eyes widened," being one; "battered old," "odd little associate professor."
Amazing piece. For me, the minimal apporach to the story here is just to my liking. I don't feel I need to connect with the narrator - that's what's pleasing about the story's form. I like the moments we're shown - or maybe glimpsed is a better word. That adds isolation to the central character that works for me.
Yes ... I can see that POV. But for me when a mechanism performs as a mechanism is supposed to form, I'm not sure if it makes for a story. It does however make for an enjoyable mechanism, which is fine.
Thanks for the comments, Matt and Sam. Matt, for what it's worth, I agree about the woodenness of some lines. They always kind of bugged me, even as I felt they were appropriate to this narrator's voice. Was never quite sure what to do about that.
Dogplotz is smart for eating this butterfly. I liked the word 'labia' in this story more than I usually like it in other stories.
Yum.
Thanks much, Jason.
still a fan of this, dave! so creative and i loved working on it with you. thanks for the gracious acknowledgment, but, in truth, you gave me a really good story and i just made some comments.
for the most part, i didn't like the narrator, either, and thought that was appropriate.
however, in the end,
i sort of liked him, relating to his very basic need for connection and his steadfast faith that he will find it.
Did I read an early version of this, Dave? I'm pretty sure I did. You've created such a great, odd, yet subtle character here. I love the deadpan of this line: "It is because of that encounter that I'm rarely invited to social events." And just the strangeness of all of this.
Thanks so much, Lauren. And yes, Kath, I originally workshopped this at Zoetrope several years ago. Around then, it was accepted for publication in Prairie Dog 13, but their funding disappeared before they could release their first issue. I put it away for a long time, then pulled it back out, fixed a few things, and sent it out. Lauren helped fix a whole bunch more.
I like how contained the story is. It draws me in, teases me with the question of why he likes talking about butterflies so much, and then gives me the weird, fun encounter. And then we're back at the pieces' title: bitterness of butterfly wings. It's neat and tidy.
Great piece.
Thanks, Brendan.
this story is wonderful! i love the idea of a love story built on bitter tasting butterfly wings. very original.
Matt, I couldn't disagree more with your comments. Almost seems like you have some sort of agencda.
Good work, Dave.
Or even some sort of agenda. But what the hell do I know, I can't even spell.
Thanks, Lisa and George. And regarding Matt's comments: I actually agree with much of what he says. And we've met in person, get along fine, and we've exchanged constructive criticisms before. No agenda other than collegial. It's all good.
Fair enough. Just seems like to me he's basically saying that without more the story doesn't work. His comments remind me of what some folks say about flash generally...gotta be longer to be any good. But yeah, sounds like I'm out in left field as usual.
Like this one a lot, Dave. Sharp & funny.
George, I can totally see how Matt's comments could be interpreted that way. He has a body of work in flash himself (including a work in the mag I edit), though, so... I take it more as an examination of whether or not it works in this particular flash. (Or maybe I'm not having a problem with it because it echoes so closely what my own internal editor chafed at when I was writing the piece.)
Anyway... thanks. I totally appreciate your comments here.
Marcelle, thanks! Much appreciated.
i read tyhis one from the bottom up. THAT was interesting....
lol---a good thing, i assure you...
Thanks...Dave. Ha, your internal editor line made me laugh. I will check out Matt's story in SmokeLong.
I appreciate your comments. I tend to read anti-flash comments into almost everything. :)
George, I'm very aware that saying anything critical is not exactly in the mode of Fictionaut. However, I tend to use the site with less than finished pieces. But is anything actually finished? De Vinci said art is never finished, only abandoned. So my conscious agenda, such as it is, is in that vein. Sure everyone here has ulterior or subconscious motives, but that goes with the territory. You and I and everyone is posting something for a reason. The short short is a particular form and does some things really well, and doesn't do other things so well. One thing it does not do well is narrative. It is simply too short. In this piece, we have a puzzling type who remains out of necessity to brevity, a type. I can see this flattening occur in several lines and in the mechanical nature of the events. I am a fan of what might be called mechanical fictions -- OULIPO, Borges, and Ben Marcus. Mechanical is not a pejorative, but rather to me a method where form overrides some of the other pleasures of fiction. (I'm sure there is a proper literary term of it somewhere.) Here, it overrides the sense of character as a fully realized entity. This is often, I think, the outcome of the short as well as mechanical fictions. So a logical question to me whenever I read a short is, what would this look like if it was longer? In this case, we are dealing with what is by and large a naturalistic story rather than a conceptual story. Sure it has some inspired oddities, but the intent seems to create a dense environment with a degree of verisimilitude. The mechanical aspect of the story is also resulting from brevity. Usually, this is not a question a writer asks, I think. Typically they are trying to make it shorter or more concise to put more pressure on their words. But brevity is not always friendly.
Gary: Ha!!! Do you mean the comments or the story itself? Making me want to read all of my stuff backwards now to see what emerges.
Thanks...Matt. Really good comments that make me think and certainly engage. I also like that Da Vinci quote.
Excellent!
excellent stuff dave, thanks for sending it to dogzplot.
Great voice and bizarre turn of events. The character kind of builds as the story progresses. I really liked this. Thanks for showing it!
Thanks, Matt and Deb. Barry, it was an honor to have it appear at the Plot.
I enjoyed the strangeness of this piece, its surprising twists. I also enjoyed the comments afterwards, and admire the open, honest exchanges. Refreshing :-)
Thanks, Ethel.
Such wonderful oddness. Really liked everything about this, Dave. Grand.
Thanks, Sheldon.
"So I licked the Anise from my fingers. Making sure that I didn't miss a single bit of the taste of its various parts." - This is how I read your story :) It vibrates. It flutters. It's lovely and it's weird. Wonderful stuff, Dave!
Thanks, Lindsay.
Very creative story.
Holy cow - that's what I say, stock phrase or not. The idea of the bitterness of butterfly wings was so strange to me -- I can't get it out of my head. Terrific piece!