Very Short Story 1

Meredith abruptly changed direction and turned to face the faded pink stucco wall of her house. She had been gardening; her beans desperately needed….something, more than the water she had brought out in a jar from the kitchen. She felt they were crumbling under her glance, just like the wall in front of her. She sighed almost inaudibly, putting out very little breath. She was disappointed. She turned again. Sighed. And then re-pivoted. “This dirt is life-less,” she thought, squatting, pouting. “No” she thought again “it is life-sucking. It’s killing the plants.” Her mind trailed on desperately, “it’s killing the house. It’s killing the air. It’s killing me.” She was getting dizzy. She needed a cigarette. She stood up quickly, empty jar cradled in her arm. A snapshot of the Virgin Mary. Madonna and child, a postcard-picture. Like the ones sold up the corner from her house on market days. A solid pink background. White ruffled border. She looked vacant.

Originally the dryness had appealed to her. She had fantasized of moments like this: putting intense amounts of effort into the growth of her own oasis. Her own gem amidst a decrepit village. Fighting the wildness of the land; learning and reigning its beauty. This was her pulsing desire, this was the exotic. Far below the equator, she had become dissatisfied in the midst of her marvelous future.

A butterfly landed on the glass rim of the jar. It slowly, but deliberately crawled its way in through the mouth, the creature’s almost-pre-calculated efforts demanding and successfully capturing Meredith’s attention. Meredith looked at it, sitting there patiently, and languidly screwed on the lid.

“I think it’s from having sisters.” She said, distantly.

She walked through the lawn to the side of the pool. Contemplating the surface, she dropped the jar and watched it speed through the water: straight and easy, through the center of her reflection’s head. A direct path: down, to the bottom. She thought about the butterfly and pictured this new world through its eyes.

Her thoughts became the butterfly’s and she pictures rhis new world through its eyes. She was jealous. She wanted to be submerged. To be thrown in, helpless. Plunging deeper. She wanted to stay under. To feel light and drowsy and engulfed. Contained, but free. She searched the underwater make-believe world with her eyes and beat her wings in rhythm with her thoughts. She felt the air and imagined feeling the water inside of her mind. It was there. It was everywhere.