{ The White Moth } A flash story based on Mary Oliver's "The Moths"

April 06, 2019



Here's the funny thing about this story. I came across the poem on pinterest and I immediately decided I had to write a story about it. What I didn't realize though was that the poem I was reading was not the full version of Mary Oliver’s poem. The day after I wrote this story, I looked it up and the end was infused with such a measure of fragile hope. I guess I expressed that hope in a completely different way in this little personal rendition/imagining but I want to make sure you for yourself get to read the end. So after you finish the story…read the end of the poem.// Side note: all the italics in brackets contain Mary Oliver's poem which is NOT MINE.

I did show this story to quite a few people and it leaves them confused because this story is highly symbolic. There are only two things you have to know ( I suggest you reveal them after you read the story but that’s your choice, highlight for the reveal :)…moths are often a mythological symbol for souls and this was written for those who have degenerative/chronic illnesses. The rest is up for you to understand and interpret.




The White Moth


{ There's a kind of white moth, I don't know

what kind, that glimmers

by mid- May

In the forest, just

as the pink moccasin flowers

are rising.


If you notice anything,

it leads you to notice

more

and more. }


It begins with photons of light crinkling beyond the edge of her vision. First her feet hit the floor and then her eyes bat open and the particles of light dance and twirl as she rubs them. In a feeling akin to desperation she repeats this every morning torn between the strange magic and the mysterious inconvenience.


Bit by bit the white lights floats in. Filtering through tall cedars and flying wood dust, traversing past the pale blue and golden morning sky it enters the cabin in the woods and grows inch by inch illuminating her feet and pale long legs.


And slowly the light reaches her eyes and inside as the dance grows orange, red and yellow the particles disappear in blinding flashes and she is forced to open her eyes and face reality once more.


A cup of tea made by trembling hands, a rough slice of brown rye bread and poorly spread butter, a lucky wild strawberry mine uncovered yesterday. She lets out the kind of breath soldiers let out when they escape death.


Her eyes waver, flooded with light. The wasps buzz around the dropped strawberries that litter the porch. Today five small berries make it into her stomach. It is a good day. Is it good day?


A faint shadow passes over the sun


They say faces tell stories, well then her face is a canvas a million vagabonds scrawled on. Fine lines over faint birthmarks, a deep scar on her temple. Blank watering eyes. A quivering mouth. Grayish lavender circles around her eye sockets.


And then from the depths of the wood where the squirrels screech and the mourning doves coo comes a little white thing. Fluttering, flapping…


A white moth in the day


{ And anyway

I was so full of energy

I was always running around looking

At this and that


If I stopped

the pain

was unbearable }


She bends her knee, her eyebrows furrowed, her breath deep... focused. The crowd roars, but she's too far away in her thoughts to hear.


... your mark, GO!


She doesn't run, she flies


“a pre immortalized legend” critics call her


“...reserved her place in history before even turning 20”


No one ever asks why, they always ask how, what and the wows, the praise. It is as if someone is spilling empty nutshells into her hand.


“Really now” she thinks as the reporter announces her as the three time 200 dash women's league winner. What she really means of course is that-

Her eyes glaze over as she sees pictures pass like a slide

Her mother in the bleachers cheering in May, In May when she held the first finisher cup up and cheered as if the earth was the most beautiful place to exist.

Her mother in June, the soft hand brushing away the river on her cheeks. The hair falling out.

Her mother in July. Like the skeleton of a songbird. Weak song spilling out of her persistent spirit.

Her mother in August. Her mother under the cold soil of the earth which is the most ugly place to ever exist.

“Congratulations! Congratulations!”

And the crowd goes wild.

But running... running is not about prestige, passion, fame. Running is about forgetting. About not feeling anything but the cold fire in her lungs and a tense pulling throughout her muscles.


But lately her eyes have been closing, blinking. Her muscles wasting under tan skin. “It's the incident, it's been painful that's all” she tells herself everyday. “ I will be strong again. And run faster, forget better.”


But deep down she knows her monologues are desperate lies. And the panic is driving her mad.


{ If I stopped and thought, maybe

the world

can't be saved,

the pain

was unbearable }


Her hands tremble, tremble as slowly butterflies and moths flutter around her and begin to land on her skin. Orange, blue, pale yellow, brown gray flash. Her skin crawls but her watering eyes focus on the white moth still fluttering. Dancing on air, light, effortless…


She holds her eyes open, sobs catching in her throat as tears of searing pain roll down her cheeks.


The moth sways and the forest grows blurry


deep buzzing fills the atmosphere.


Slowly the world goes red as her eyes fall


Then orange, then yellow


Then she tastes the sweet aftermath of fruits on her tongue for the first time in years, she feels a strange kind of warmth seep through every crawling inch of her skin.


Maybe her pale crooked mouth even forms a Mona Lisa smile.


And then the light goes white


The butterflies disappear


Two white moths flutter into the sky

_

The rest of this lovely poem



 Finally, I noticed enough.
All around me in the forest
the white moths floated.

How long do they live, fluttering
in and out of the shadows?

You aren’t much, I said
one day to my reflection
in a green pond,
and grinned.

The wings of the moths catch the sunlight
and burn
so brightly.

At night, sometimes,
they slip between the pink lobes
of the moccasin flowers and lie there until dawn,
motionless
in those dark halls of honey.

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15 comments

  1. Replies
    1. I'm really glad you liked it Nicole :)) thanks xxx

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  2. Wow, this is beautiful ... I feel I need to read it again to understand the symbolism past the beautiful crafted words, but I /think/ the two things you are showing is that life is short, but it's beautiful? But just because it's short doesn't mean it's forgettable ... because we can still remember forever, through the pain.
    I hope I didn't just butcher what you meant for me to see ;p

    keturahskorner.blogspot.com

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. See I absolutely love what you came up with which is why i wanted to leave it open to the reader's interpretation!
      Well basically the main character of this story has a chronic illness and is wasting away. Her mother died of cancer earlier as can be seen in part 2 and MC (the main character) says “ I will be strong again. And run faster, forget better.” so running is an escape from the pain, it's an attempt to run away from what hurts. But her chronic illness makes it so she can't "run" away anymore so to speak. She's stuck, pain attacking her physically and mentally. The first white moth signifies the soul of her mom, the second white moth is her joining her mother's. Basically we see her die at the end.

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    2. All in all I tried to focus on this immense grief and embody it physically, change metaphors into reality to create this overwhelming pain yet also show that a small fluttering hope is always present

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  3. WOW. That was amazing. Amazing, fantastic job Anna. *applauds* <\3

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  4. Wow, beautiful! Thank you for sharing with us, Anna! <3

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