Short story of winning but not winning the prize in cash
As most people do, they scroll through different types of media throughout the day as time allows for those who are at home either working from a computer or perusing one looking for work.
I happened to be doing neither right now, but came across a platform rather new to me, and one of which I had never heard of, up until today. What caught me eye, was a platform called Vocal, which is running a contest with a prize of up to 20,000 to the person who so creatively creates a fictional story about someone who unexpectedly comes into a large sum of money, involving a mysterious little black book.
The little black book in question, happens to be their partner, with the name Moleskine. Cute things, they are, and I’m sure I’ve used my share of books which are comparable.
In order to eligible, you first have to join (as with most nowadays everyone wants your money!) and pay some sort of monthly fee. You also have to follow their rules and submission guidelines through the whole process.
Guess I should have read all that stuff first.
Oh, and of course they want original work (like who wants to really plagiarize someone else’s work and get into writer trouble?) which just has to “fit” their idea of what represents everything they are all about..
Well, before reading all the rules, I gave it my best shot. My mind goes into this frenzy sometimes, almost at any given moment — I can come up with a song, write paragraphs after paragraphs of poetry or come up with a story line from sometimes almost less than five words or a simple phrase. It’s totally uncanny at times. So really, what I’m trying to say, is this is the story I came up with today immediately after I saw the contest post.
I title it, “BLACK BOOK BUTTERFLY.” Here goes:
I don’t think I have thought about her in years. Saddened by a recent phone call, I have been informed my childhood friend, Wendy, has recently passed.
Growing up, I lived in a small, rural town which is now known for its party college scene, but in my youth it was the place of childhood dreams and a park which children could spend the whole day with not a care in the world.
My very best friend was from that town, and we spent more time together than the sisters I currently have.
I believe it was her family that uprooted my best friend before my very own family followed suit. Lucky for me, we wrote plenty of letters, as a faithful pen pal would, starting from high school, all the way through college and up until graduation from uni. Best friends with the same goals and degrees. There was no stopping us from there!
Although we had separate lives after our studies, we would manage to spare weekends and vacations, meeting up with each other and reminiscing of university parties and the different people who came and have gone from our lives. For the following ten years we managed to stay in touch. Time eventually caught up with the both of us, and our meetings seemed to come to an abrupt end. Could I have done more to keep in touch? Should we have written each other more? Maybe she met someone new and has outgrown our friendship, starting fresh in life with something, someone new…I digress..
Imagine my surprise, then dismay, when my phone rang early morning last March 23rd, from a woman claiming to be Wendy’s current neighbor, Miss Vai. Apparently, Wendy had never married. She had bought a small cottage north of Benson and went on to pursue a career of environmental science in a position as professor of entomology, solely focusing on lepidopterology whenever she could and in her spare time.
“Would you be interested in the whole butterfly collection?” Miss Vai had asked, as I barely spoke back in a voice to answer, fighting back tears from just hearing my friend lost her battle to cancer. “She also wanted you to have this little black notebook. Inside the book is a paper that doesn’t make sense to me, but the instructions were to give the book, so if you can make it out here sometime, it’s yours. Can you come out sometime soon?” She asked.
“Sure thing, I’ll be in touch.” was all I could muster, as she gave me her number to call, before hanging up. The following day, I put in for vacation, in the upcoming two weeks. Perfect time for vacation during the spring months, although for the not-so-perfect reason we all wish to not ever be apart of. My vacation would now be a day trip to and from her cottage, with a single day to pack and load the van.
I can do that.
On arrival, I was greeted by an elderly lady, soft spoken with long, silvery flowing hair and lines wrinkled the whole width of her face, that surely looked of what I call laugh lines and worry lines. One has to know their whole story to be really sure of which ones they possess.
We exchanged our pleasantries and shared some stories about Wendy over a cup of lemon Bigelow tea sitting down at Wendy’s mahogany dining table. I described to Miss Vai, how as children, Wendy and I would exchange little black notebooks with secret messages within the words which we wrote to one another. You know the type. The kind where one letter is capitalized to stand out, and you put those letters together to spell out some words or message — where you put them all together….that most everyone knows how to do in this day and age…. Funny, how I laughed out loud, looking through that little black book she handed me. Made me smile, too. My fingers fumbled through the pages, when then I came across that paper Miss Vai had mentioned that made no sense.
“Well how about that!” I exclaimed, as I once again saw a secret code message for me to unscramble in a not so childlike script writing. Quickly decoding the text, it spelled out “BLUE MORPH”.
Confused, I put it back in the book. I could only feel a heavy heart which forced it’s way into a smile, thinking back to my youth, still tired from the drive there. Miss Vai had then asked “How long do you think it will take, and do you need any help?”
“Ill start with a bit tonight and should be finished packing the boxes and put in the van by no later than tomorrow evening. I’ll stay then, just another night, before leaving for home. What will happen to the rest of her belongings?” I said, as I picked up and put down both tea cups in the sinks’ dishwashing bin.
“The rest of her things will be donated to the church and split up to a small shelter a few blocks away. Her brother, Karl, just wants the money from when the house goes up for sale. He’s not interested in sentimental trinkets, collections or personal items.” She stated, with a saddened look upon her wrinkled, raised brow. One could almost feel her contempt she must have felt on the subject of Wendy’s brother.
“Karl was just here last week, as he lives over an hour away. Lucky for me, I found both his number and yours in her desk. All with written instructions in an envelope, and labeled in huge letters “IN CASE OF DEATH”. Can’t downright believe she never told me how bad it really was. I just knew she was ill, but she never confided in me…not anyone.”
I can still recall the way her eyes welled up so quickly. Told her I would be fine packing the collection up by myself. I would see her again, tomorrow night.
Although still tired, I continued my beginnings of packing the framed collection carefully, as I handled them one by one, from off the many walls of her small cottage home. Hanging from almost ceiling to floor, they certainly made up for the largest of family photos. This collection was, is, impressive!
Seeing such a variety reminded me of one where Wendy and I shared an afternoon getting matching blue butterfly tattoos, during one of our weekend girl getaways. Oh, what a weekend, the milestones of moments one could never forget!
It was then, I came across a single mounted frame of a blue morpho, or morpho peleides, as its technical name. How beautiful this one was. Meticulously mounted without a single flaw in utter perfection. Surely, this was a professional mounting by an expert, not a single tear in the wings edges. Taken back by its beauty, I stared a bit too much. Found myself thinking about the code from the paper in the little black book…the blue morph…What might it mean?
Upon closer inspection, I happened to notice an addition of shiny, metallic paint, which blended into the edging of the morphos’ wings, revealing a sequence of numbers. One, seven, four, one. What did that mean? Did Wendy do that? Was it a marker from a professional mounter, marking his 1,741th blue morpho butterfly? Wait a minute!….That was Wendy’s old house number! It HAD to have been her, in marking this mount. But why? What could it possibly mean?
I found myself laughing to myself, about myself. I remembered Wendy once said she aspired to be a super spy or the smartest detective in the world at one recess as kids. Weird how I came to remember this in that moment…Maybe she never outgrew her playful nature, even as an adult. We all tend to become so serious as we grow old. I still have my childish moments.
I suppose for her, riddles, puzzles and finding answers were always her calling. Guess that’s why she wanted me to have the book. Fond memories, I’ll always treasure.
I kept at it, for another hour. Quit wrapping, packing and boxing for the night. Tomorrow is another day. Only three more rooms to go.
The sunrise had awaken me, as the room I slept in, had full access throughout the sheer curtains hung in the windows. Got dressed, had a decent English breakfast with tea, and picked up where I left off from the day before. I finally got through high noon, reaching the final room. There, three enormous frames encasing a vast array of earth toned butterflies, each marked with the native region in which they were from.
This was to be my most favorite room in the whole place. I snickered as I gazed upon each frame hanging majestically, yet gracefully against what appeared to be velvet lined wallpaper. So whimsical, yet only ever observed by these same eyes, over a dining room from a house that a realtor once showed me when I was in the market for buying my very own first house. I remember that as clear as day. The paper was bright red. I do have to say, that never stops me from brushing my hand against such paper, in seeing just soft it really is. Yes, I still have that kid in me.
Moving on….
Each frame in this collection must have weighed at least twenty pounds or more. Heavy frames, heavy old glass and delicate, pretty creatures. I noticed a bunch of blue morphos surrounding the center of this frame. As I tackled the weight of this frame, I lifted it up and off the two nails carefully, while then placing it on the floor vertically, leaning against the back wall. Lo, and behold, behind the frame was a flush mounted wall safe.
My imagination got the best of me at this point. What was inside? Was it emptied already? Wonder what the combination is? My inner sleuth just kicked into overload. And then I saw it. A blue morpho butterfly painted with the same metallic paint in its wings, only, there were no numbers. Perhaps it was a clue to me to find. Could it be? Could the numbers I examined from the frame downstairs be the combination? What was that again? Right. 1741.
I could only try it. Just once. Left one. Right, seven. Left, four. Right, one. Pull handle down…….and CLICK!….it opens. Another note is found, along with an off yellowed envelope. I sat down on the rocking chair in the corner of the room, and read the heartfelt sentiments of my best friend who regretted the distance she put between the two of us. She went on to say that she started getting sick from a year after we lost touch from each other, and went on saying it was cancer, but had already metastasized so aggressively that she opted for living out her remaining time on her own terms. Somehow, in the pain and agony of knowingly having to write down her final wishes to me, she managed to crack a joke in her note, going on about how she imagined I might figure out, and find, her blue morpho clues. I was reminded that even distance could never change our friendship, and this was her way of saving me from worry, from sorrow….from the pain of losing a good friend.
Up until now.
Enclosed with the letter was her last will and testament, bequeathing me her cottage home and a small fortune to the tune of a hundred thousand in cash. I was flabbergasted, to say the least!
It wasn’t looking good for Karl.
Later on in the day, and before I knew it, there was a knock at the door. It was Miss Vai. She had returned.
Now living in what was once my best friends cottage home, I left my old position for a new one, teaching in the same place my best friend once worked. I check in with Miss Vai every day. She needs a good friend, and hopefully I can be there for her…well, for each other, I mean…
As for the blue morphs and the collection in its entirety?
They have flown back to their true home once again.