by Various
What more can I say other than that I love you? There are no other words to convey this.
My feelings have gone beyond desire, beyond simple love, have reached manic proportions.
I believe that I may well be on the verge of something terrible. I don’t know how to express it. Every time I try to encapsulate the feeling with words, it flits away again and I’m back to angry frustration.
I have ruined several letters with this strength of feeling. I am beating the keyboard, slamming each character in an attempt to capture its essence and control the flow of emotion. Why must I destroy everything? Yet each man kills the thing he loves; the brave man with a sword.
I have to begin again.
Dear,
I’m writing this on the train home. I don’t have much time before the stop. I need to tell you something. I love you! I have loved you for so long and tried to tell you but each time I miss the moment. This time I know that I will catch you.
As soon as I get home I’ll print this out and hand deliver it so that I am sure you’ll have it. I have a good feeling about this and I know that we can talk about it. It may come as a shock to you so I can give you time but I feel very strongly that we should be together for the rest of our lives.
My darling, I wish that I could see your face as you read this; I wish that I could know in advance how you feel. I am excited and quite nervous but I know this is the right thing to do. I am glad that I have at last been able to grasp the valour and to articulate my feelings without spoiling the impression. To reiterate: I love you!
Dear,
I played your message when I got home. I came into the darkening house and saw the flashing red bulb lighting up my hall. I am so glad that I did play it and not send all of the above in my fit of optimism. I know now that I can never send this letter.
It will never be the right time. I will forever be on the brink of telling you how I feel just as you turn up with a shiny new love. I hate them. Each one individually I hate with a venom that I cannot express. I now know what I need to do and this will begin with destroying these letters.
Dear,
Congratulations! I’m so glad for you. Let’s get together and you can tell me all about how you met. Better still, why don’t you both come over and I’ll prepare a meal. Let’s have sushi again. I am sharpening my knives. We can have a few drinks and catch up. Come tomorrow night so I have a chance to clean out the spare room and you can stay over. I’ll tell you all about the conference. See you then! Bring wine!
8
Angel Wings
Brendan Telford
Author
Brendan Telford, despite having spent much of his adult life in urban settings, is a country born boy from Queensland, Australia. He has always had an affinity with the written word, when as a child he would make up stories while pretending to read the phone directory. Brendan is a teacher, music journalist, studied Creative Writing and Research as a Masters Degree, and has seen much of the world. His story Angel Wings is a road trip, involving love, loss, sex, death, hope… and butterflies. Brendan currently lives in London.
Xavier sat on the bonnet of the shark. He looked around at the MonarchWatch volunteers, all butterfly nets, floppy broadbrimmed hats, hiking boots and ankle protectors. Children, students, middle aged conservationists, senior citizens. All of them hunting the monarch.
He slid off the bonnet and turned to the two cases sitting next to him. He opened the first case and took out segments of the butterfly net. The lacquered dowel felt cool to the touch. He screwed the two segments together, attaching the bamboo hoop to the top section.
The net itself was made of Emma’s bridal veil – at least it was getting used.
He placed the rubber grip of the handle in one hand, the leather handle of the second case in the other, and started off into the woods.
Xavier came to the perfect place after ten minutes. In that time he had seen many monarchs, but none of them would make it easy to capture them.
When in flight they were wary creatures. Elusive. No-one seemed to mind this – children’s laughter echoed off the trees, bringing a smile to his face. It made the tagging process an adventure. The search for treasure coming to fruition when the butterfly fluttered at the back of a net. But the tagging was only the beginning.
He watched as the butterflies feasted on the nectar of a clump of wood violets growing beside a decaying log. Their wings captured the sun’s rays as they broke through the web of the foliage above, moving to and fro to a hypnotic rhythm that only they could hear. Their orange markings glowed.
He moved towards them, his shoulders arched, aching with anticipation. A bead of sweat clung to the tip of his nose. Yet the monarchs did not move. Their undulating wings seemed to encourage the sweep of the net.
He knelt on the pine needles and moss-strewn floor. A quick count showed six butterflies were inside the bridal veil. He flipped open the second case, taking out a sheet of tags and the notebook, its red cover contrasting with the greenness of the surroundings.
24th August, Neenah, Wisconsin (44.19 N, -88.52 W) – tagged six Danaus plexippus. Found feeding from Viola papilionacea in a wooded clearing. Tags used DOE611 – DOE616.
Xavier turned from the notebook and carefully flattened the net on the ground, ensuring the monarchs’ wings were not damaged and instead closing them over their backs. They complied. He eased his hand up under the hoop and into the net, using his thumb and forefinger to grasp the closest thorax, gently bringing it out of its temporary prison.
Xavier held the butterfly in front of his face. The dappled sunlight pierced its wings. A golden hue emanated seemingly from within the wings, possibly the creature itself, cocooning both of them in cascading luminosity.
He let go of its thorax, placing it on his forefinger. Instead of fleeing, it remained there, its wings dancing. He felt the velvet of the auburn wings, interlaced with black, splashes of white dots bordering the tips. Its delicate features belied its true self – a being of splendour, courage, and hope. The sun heightened the colours into a burnt orange, fire, a phoenix.
A rustle from behind brought Xavier around, head spinning from the sudden movement. Before he could stop, the butterfly floated into the air, hovering above his startled expression and outstretched arms.
He saw the child standing there, bewilderment and amazement swimming across her ruddy features. Her red coat enhanced her blue eyes, but they were not focused on him. The monarch in flight transfixed her.
Xavier remained frozen, watching the girl watching the monarch, when her eyes focused on him for the first time. He went to speak, but felt something tickle his outstretched finger. The monarch sat there, lazily moving its wings, inviting him to take it. With careful movements he held the butterfly’s thorax with his thumb and forefinger, kneeling as he did so.
The girl smiled, matching the glow of the monarch’s golden wings. She made to come forward, then stalled, creases meeting at the corners of her eyes. Her smile faltered, yet a remnant remained.
Xavier gestured with his head to come closer. The girl’s fingers twitched, a shadow coming across her face. The smile dimmed further.
“It’s OK.”
The girl hesitated, then the smile returned in all its beauty. She took measured steps, her gaze never leaving his fingertips. She reached him and squatted down, her eyes sapphires, gleaming in the streaked sunlight. She looked up at him, full of anticipation and wonder.
Xavier took the tagging sheet with his other hand and motioned to the girl.
“Do you want to tag him?”
The girl’s fingers answered for her. She peeled the first circular tag from the sheet – DOE611. Sticking it to her fingertip, she looked at Xavier, awaiting further instructions. He moved closer to her, exposing the monarch’s hind wing.
“See that baseball mitt shaped part there?”
The girl nodded, her fringe falling into her eyes. She tucked it behind her ear, an absent movement, getting rid o
f an irritation.
“Just press the tag lightly right there.”
Her fingers whispered as she placed the tag on the discal cell. The procedure was completed in reverent silence. Slowly the girl moved away from the butterfly, the tag in place.
Xavier and the girl smiled at each other, both safe in the knowledge that they had participated in a beautiful and lifechanging act.
The girl’s eyes were so clear, he could see the future in them. Blue skies. Warm suns. And laughter. Lots of laughter.
Xavier’s smile hardened like drying paint. He needed to do something before everything was ruined. He moved his hand towards the girl.
“Here. You can release it.”
The girl’s eyes glistened. She took the butterfly in her hands and held it to her face. She giggled as the wings brushed her face, the first sound she had made. She whispered something into the monarch’s wings, and then in one fluid movement she stood and launched it towards the heavens.
The girl laughed in wonderment as the monarch floated above them. Xavier blinked the salt out of his eyes. He turned to the net, where the other monarchs waited, his back to the girl.
“Do you want to help me with the rest?’
Xavier opened the trunk of the shark and placed himself inside.
One car refrigerator. One leather doctor’s bag, full of toiletries and personals. One small suitcase, full of short-sleeved shirts and trousers of differing shades of brown. One thin black briefcase – tagging apparatus, glassine envelopes, zip loc bags and all-weather polypropylene tags, individually numbered. One metallic case – butterfly net, self-made. One kerosene lamp. Two floodlight torches. One laptop computer.
He closed the trunk and hopped on top, staring at the stars amidst a haze of smoke, each star telling ancient history to an ignorant audience. Their shimmering form enraptured him, pinpricks of life that kept away the darkness.
Xavier held up the joint and waved it in the air, tracing a course amongst the stars. The burning ember left a trail like a comet. He brought the joint back to his lips and drew a breath. He closed his eyes, suddenly feeling exposed to the elements.
Xavier grabbed the sleeping bag and walked over to the campsite. The fire crackled hungrily. He rolled out the sleeping bag, smoothing out all the creases. He lay on his side, staring into the flames. Blood rushed to his cheeks. The branches fuelling the fire were crimson rods. He felt himself being sucked into the flames, ensconced in its raging heat, yet feeling no pain, only strength.
One of the stars moved. Just above the trees. He rose up onto his elbows and squinted up at the sky. Everything was coloured with a crimson tinge, the flames of the fire burnt onto his retina. He strained his eyes. It was gone.
He lowered himself back on the bag when he saw the star move again. It didn’t move like a normal shooting star. It had no tail. It floated along, drifting on the air’s currents. It tracked through its myriad cousins, in no hurry to complete its journey, disappearing behind the treetops.
Another star moved. And another. Xavier stood, kicking one of the branches in the fire. A quick flush of heat raced up his leg, the spiraling sparks enveloping him. All of the stars were now moving, slowly at first, then increasing in speed. He ran his fingers through his hair and readjusted his glasses. His face turned up to the sky, he stretched his arms out on either side of him, and palms raised, he began to spin. Each star left an arc of light mapping its movement. The sky filled with curved lines of white light.
Xavier felt the white lines pass by the shark as he traveled down US-151. Wind whipped at his face, his hair flicking at his glasses. A sheet of paper muttered from the backseat, disturbed by the constant turbulence. Earth, sand, sky permeated Xavier’s pores. He took a deep breath, feeling some semblance of happiness.
The past two days had been a blur of notating monarch flight coordinates, scouring over meteorological reports and road maps, and watching the MonarchWatch GPS from his laptop, currently situated on the opposite bucket seat.
Xavier barely acknowledged the passing of state lines from Wisconsin to Iowa, except for the automatic marking of notes in his book. Every few miles he would crane his head back, hearing an unsettling crack emanate from his neck. The brown corduroy seat covers prickled his skin through his shirt. He had taken to wearing his leather jacket whilst driving, but before long sweat trickled into his eyes.
The shark wasn’t the problem. Its long sleek white body prowled the road, intimidating the few vehicles it came into contact with. It wasn’t the constant note taking either – he had done these types of things countless times in the laboratories at the Entomology section of Kansas University. He excelled in reporting and analysis.
It wasn’t the roads – the trip had seemed the most exhilarating part for him – the openness of the rolling countryside speaking volumes of the history of the land beneath the shark’s wheels.
Since the night of the spinning stars, sleep would not come.
The hitchhiker came out of nowhere. It stood just after the turnoff to Cedar Rapids.
Xavier was barely aware of its presence, let alone its protruding thumb, yet he found himself on the shoulder of the highway, the shark’s tyres creating dust devils. He placed his arm on the headrest of the passenger side seat and stared out of the rear window. He strained to focus on the figure that approached. The heat rose off the bitumen, causing the person to become a shimmering enigma. A figment of his imagination.
The hitchhiker rapped on the roof of the shark, making Xavier start, his glasses sliding off his nose. He looked out his window and up into a faceless, sexless specter. The sun shone directly behind the figure, blackening all features.
“Where should I throw my stuff?”
The feminine voice threw him.
“On the backseat will be fine.”
“Cool.” The figure moved away from the window, causing Xavier to be momentarily blinded by the sudden exposure of the sun. The back door opened, accommodating an oversized duffel bag and a series of smaller backpacks and assorted accoutrements. The door slammed closed, causing the shark to rock gently. Its engine thrummed unabated.
The passenger door creaked open, Xavier snatching up the laptop as the hitchhiker backed into the shark. He cradled the laptop in his arms and watched as she got herself comfortable, moving up and down in the seat, feeling the corduroy, eyeing the cracked leather upholstery, looking around. Weighing it up.
Finally she turned to him as she buckled up. “Ready?”
The shark rolled on.
“Where are you heading?”
“Me? To the Alamo.”
“The Alamo?”
“Yeah, you know, that big fort of yours where Davey Crockett got himself killed?”
“Yeah, I know. Why are you heading down there?”
“I’m meeting friends there. You?”
“Huh?”
“Where are you heading?”
“Oh, oh, yeah, I’m heading to the Michaocan highlands. Mexico.”
“Oh, OK. What’s there?”
“The monarch butterfly.”
“Oh. Cool.”
Yasmin studied him as the shark moved along the highway. Every ride she ever caught was usually with male occupants, always looking at her sideways, some not even trying to hide their rabid lust. She was cool with that. She knew her body and what it was capable of better than anyone. Yet he seemed determined not to look at her. She leant on the passenger side door, accentuating the curves that lay hidden by her tight black jeans. He didn’t appear to notice.
She straightened and stared out the window at the farmland that was sliding by. Iowa was so flat. Its lack of undulating mountain ranges or expansive views of an ocean would have bored many people. She was fascinated by it. The thin layer of heat shimmering above the loamy fields; red shirted farmers coated in dirt, rivulets of sweat carving furrows in their faces, crow’s feet encroaching on their glistening eyes. The patchwork of fields stretched to the horizon, a sea of corn swelling on
one side, a lake of purple alfalfa rising up on the other. The sense of accomplishment that these people must experience. Content in the knowledge that the fruits of their labour come from the earth, providing for them and for those that depend on them. For those that are still to come.
Yasmin didn’t realise he was talking until he asked the question a second time. She looked over at him. His eyes flickered intermittently between the road and the GPS map on his laptop. She nodded even though she knew he couldn’t see the motion.
“Yes, I am Australian. Come from Perth, actually. Western Australia.”
He nodded without taking his eyes off the road. “I’ve been there.”
“Really?”
“When I was younger. My father studied the behavioural patterns of dolphins. In Bunbury.”
“Oh yeah, I’ve been there! Koombana Bay?” Yasmin nodded without waiting for a reply. “Yeah, I swam with the dolphins there one time. Not too long ago actually. The way they glide in and out of the tourists, without a care… Amazing.”
“Yeah, I guess it would be.”
“Guess? Didn’t you swim with them?”
“I was too young. My father wouldn’t let me.” He shrugged. “I’m not a good swimmer.”
She nodded. He drove.
Xavier guided the shark off the East 2 highway and moved into Fort Madison. The hitchhiker looked at her watch. 3:41pm. As they moved into the town’s wide leafy streets, she turned to him.
“Are we stopping for a while?”
Xavier looked at her, surprise etched on his face.
“Well, yeah. I have to stop here for the night.” Realising his error, his expression melted into one of apology. “Oh, sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking. I only travel 200 miles a day. Following the route of the butterfly. I should have told you, maybe left you out on the highway – ”