Lying on a lounger in the sun-drenched courtyard, weighed down by heat as though by water, limbs languid, heavy, leaden. Holding a book is exhausting. Eyelids drowse down, again, again. Above, overripe grapes are beginning to bulge, to burst their own skins, to rot. The light through the thick thatch of vine-leaves is lurid yellow-green. Eyes up, eyes down. Sunlight leaves black swathes on the retina. Looking up and down is harder than usual. Ball-bearings for eyes. Eyes up. A red flash in the periphery. Red and black. Flash. Flash. The wings of a butterfly, perched on a grape. To feed, perhaps. A monarch, sporting stained-glass heraldry. Orange-red and black. Flash. Flash. The wings open and close. Open and close. A decision was made not to look away, but now that decision has now been transcended. The choice has gone. Ball-bearing eyes are locked, heavy eyelids stuck open somehow. Flash. Flash. The wingbeat is ever-so-slightly irregular. A heartbeat. Flash. Flash. Flash. Flash. Breathing slows and so too, does the heart until it seems to synchronise, until it seems that your heart is the butterfly itself. The sun the vine the grapes the heat of the day all melted away. There is only the butterfly, beating, beating. Flash. Flash. Flash.
Eyes close once and it's gone, suddenly.
Resurface into the heat of the day, and sweat big cold droplets because for a second, you thought your heart had stopped.
I am going to write a story of some variety, long or short, fictitious or factual, every single day for a year. Wish me luck.
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