Memories Of Moth1
Moth and I used to sit on those hard granite stones everyday. The cemetery had been my sanctuary since I was eight. It was my only way to get away from the squabbles of my home. Sometimes I would lie on the grass, and pick at the dandelions that were bold enough to come out of the ground. And I would think about life. Funny, how when I was surrounded by death all I wanted to think about is life. I met Moth was when I was nine. I’d been in the graveyard for a couple hours crying. Unannounced to me, she had been sitting atop a stone bible, which a marble angel had held out in her hands. When I finally saw her, she just stared at me, her hand lying delicately on her book of sketches. She held it out to me, and I took it. And then, she just left.2
I looked through the hundreds of skeletal sketches that marked their pages in the small book. The last sketch was a picture of me. I knew I would go back the next day.3
She never told me her name. Everyone called her ‘Moth’ because her clothing was a worn black, and she never spoke much. I hated her name. I didn’t think anyone had the right to call her a moth.4
She was smart and creative and by our sophomore year of high school, the cemetery became our daily hangout. Sometimes we would tell the head stones stories, or make dead dandelion necklaces for each other. She tried teaching me how to paint once, but I never took it seriously. Not like her. Her art was her only escape. The girls at school were terrible to her, calling her names, and spreading nasty rumors. She never said anything. She never let anyone get her down.5
It was one day she didn’t come to the graveyard. I waited the whole night for her. But she never came. 6
The next day, a woman came to my house. She told me that Moth was on her way home from school one day, and was gunned down outside of the school by an unknown person. The guy wanted money, and tagged the first person he could get hold of.7
The woman handed me a book on her way out and said that Moth would have wanted me to have it.8
I began looking through the book. Sketches. Hundreds. Beautiful sketches. And I realized, as I looked through them the beauty that had grown in her over the years. 9
Moth was buried in our cemetery, the first in over a hundred years. Her grave stands out though. The night after I found out, I took a stone and painted a butterfly on it, then laid it near her stone. She wasn’t my Moth any more, and she never had been. I had just been to blind to notice. She was no moth, she was my Butterfly.10
Author notes
Well I did the challange one about the boy and the girl in the depression
What did you think? Please comment!
Comments
1 - 9 of 9
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Gorgeous.That Is All I Can Say. Utterly Beautiful.
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Wow Ayla, somwhere along the path I forgot to breath. That was simply amazing. There words to describe this tightness in my chest elude me, but to say 'wow'. Thank you for sharing.
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Thank you so much for your kind words...it really means alot to me.
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wonderment
As bad as I want points..I gladly give mine to you..my eyes are filled with tears. My grandaughter draws, dresses in black.. this is an absolutely beautiful piece.. I cannot find a flaw..I couldn't look because I was captivated and tears filled my eyes..Thank you for the overwhelming beauty.. -
Wow, I have cold chills. The ending was beautiful, it all was beautiful. Thank you for entering and goodluck.
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I have to say "damn" to this piece. It is utterly and totally impressive. So sad and realistic. Even more the fact you are only fourteen makes this that much greater to me. I am always awed by young writers that show as much talent and promise as you do. This is a truly exceptional story. I miss Moth now.
The only criticism I can offer is that I feel you should double space between paragraphs...makes it easier to distinguish. -
I think you are right. I think I was just tired last night when I wrote this. It was my fourth piece in a row and I was starting to get tired of writing. Any ideas you could lend me to make it better?
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As lovely and touching as this is, it feels as if you aren't quite done with this. My eye and ear catches on the extra words you won't need, the pairing of pronouns that slightly confuse and the general sense that your voice here is still waiting to be honed to the essentials that sing out in so many of your writes.
Perhaps you were tired after so many writes, perhaps I am just overly critical - or perhaps, after reading so many works of perfection from you, I am just spoiled.
But, that said, I think this is so touching, it needs just a bit more of you to make it marvelous.
(You can shoot daggers at me now.) -
This was a very beautiful story. It gave me shivers by the end, very insperational. I think so many can relate to this story, and I find it terribly Ironic..that I may share your first name, and had gone through this entire experience. Lovely lovely write. I hope this is read by hundreds of others.
All my blessings,
Thorns,/ Ayla
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