Flash Fiction


orange butterfly on purple flower
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

The Butterfly

She watched the butterfly flap its wings against the window pain, trapped and frantic, trying to escape. It knew the outside world was on the other side of the glass, but could think of no way of getting out there.

“You’re like me little butterfly – imprisoned, with no means of escape.”

She’d been looking after her invalid mother for as long as she could remember. Neighbours called her a saint.

“We can all hear her screaming her orders at you, how do you stand it?”

A saint – they wouldn’t think that if they knew what went on in my head, she thought.

The butterfly pounded its wings, crashing from one pain of glass to the next.

“For God sake let that bloody thing out! Do you want it to drive me mad?”

She lifted her tired, aching body from the chair and unlatched the window, watching enthralled as her butterfly escaped, brilliant against the beautiful blue sky. She closed her eyes, trying to imagine it’s feeling of freedom.

“Close the damn window; do you want me to catch my death?”

Jerked back into reality she closed the window, resuming her seat in the stuffy room.

“Don’t sit down again you idle cow, get me a drink, I’m parched.”

She pulled herself up wearily and walked slowly into the kitchen, filled the kettle and stared again out of the window, looking for her butterfly. Then she saw it, happy and free, as it took nectar from the roses.

The kettle clicked off. She turned; the beauty of the butterfly still in her mind.

“Don’t forget my medicine Girl!”

“Yes Mother.”

She reached inside the cupboard for the crystal clear medicine and imagined the butterfly taking nectar.

“Freedom,” she whispered as she picked up the bleach.

She carried the tea in to her mother.

She too was a butterfly… on her way to freedom……


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