Flowers Need the Touch of Your Butterfly Feet (Fiction)

I’m trusting you with my crazy story in hopes that it will help you free yourself. And don’t ask, “Free myself from what?” As soon as I mentioned freedom, your inner voice gave you that answer loud and clear. I don’t judge you for being flustered. I was there myself, just this morning.

I rose before dawn and waded through the flotsam and jetsam of my tiny office to the purple exercise ball that serves as my desk chair. Pushing aside the junk, I lit a candle against the dark cold of an April rain.

Pen in hand, I froze. Had my imagination had been dormant too long? Maybe this ballpoint Bic was a defibrillator. I touched it to the page to see if it held a charge.

“Yes!” said a voice. It scared the shit out of me, but I settled myself and put pen to paper again.

“Who are you?” I wrote.

“I’m Anne,” she said. I could just tell it was Anne with an E. “I am your office, or you might say the deva of your office, the energy form you’ve built here.”

I was going to ask for clarification, but I didn’t have time. Anne went on and I wrote furiously, trying to keep up.

“I have been your haven and, through you, a haven for all humans who vibrate at your frequency.

“You closed my door against the pain of the world and filled me with things that made you and your cohorts feel safe. Interesting choices you made.

“The little old desk from the alley only fits your legs if you keep your knees primly together while the exercise ball opens your hips as you work, like you’re in training to be a famed, and flexible, consort.” She laughed at this, a tittering so bubbly I could take no offense.

“There’s hardly room for you in here,” she went on. “The carpet is buried beneath a printer, camera equipment for your nonexistent vlog, papers, a suitcase, laundry, and that orange Eames chair knock off you thought was so cool.”

My eyes stung. Maybe I was like this office, full of incongruent junk and wasted potential.

“No, no,” she cooed. “Don’t you see? I am no wasteland. I’m a cocoon. Not just for you either, but for all who are about to break free.”

“So you’re some kind of mother goddess?” I asked.

Her blushing made a sound, like red wine hitting a silver goblet.

“You may stay in this cocoon as long as you like. But know that with a bit of work and courage, you could be floating on gossamer wings.

“I honor your fear. You’re facing 40 days in the desert, sweetheart. But there are flowers that need the touch of your butterfly feet and yearn for you to unroll that luxuriously long tongue in a dance of pleasure that will feed you and reawaken this barren land with blossom upon blossom, gob smacking scorpions and eagles alike.

“So, I ask you gently, isn’t it time?”

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