Flower on the Brain Francesca Attar ^

Flower on the Brain

By Francesca Attar

~ WINNER OF THE NONMAJOR CONTEST ~

Carl was an eighty-two-year-old man whose mentality was still catching up to the aging of his physicality. His thinning skin took on the weight of gravity and the years that flew over his head. But Carl was unbothered by these changes; how could he be bothered when he possessed the most beautiful little butterfly in all of Envy Valley? Not only did he possess the creature, but he also cared for it deeply. Every day during feeding hours, Carl sat in the garden, kept the creature and watched it. The garden that Carl had nourished from four hundred square feet of infertile soil to a neatly organized community of plants that worked together for the butterfly soon to arrive was that of magnificence.

Yellow coneflowers and goldenrods, two nectar-filled favorites of the butterfly, made up the majority of the population in the garden. The butterfly trusted Carl. It allowed him to house it, feed it, and observe it to a typically uncomfortable extent for most beings. It had every chance to abandon the lovely garden, but Carl’s fascination and endless selection of sugary vegetation compelled the butterfly to remain.

As it unraveled its straw-like tongue, Carl followed. Carl’s tongue was not nearly as long, but once again, he was nothing less than content. As the butterfly sucked the sweet, sticky nectar from the flowers, Carl mimicked it poorly. From flower to flower, the butterfly jumped, the speckled black and blue gradient that spanned its wings flashing again and again.

That night Carl wanted to see if his wings had grown in yet. He unbuttoned his apron and lifted his shirt cautiously above his head, as he couldn’t risk messing up his wings. Turning to the full body mirror, he was ready to see the progression of the desired limbs. Slowly rotating, Carl’s expecting eyes and hopeful smile soon dissolved from his face. All that was similar to the body of the butterfly were the bronze sunspots that entertained his patchy back. Without getting into his cloud-decorated pajamas or turning off the lights, Carl moped his way next to the twin bed in the corner of the room and dropped to the floor right beside it. He simply closed his eyes, and they remained so as the liveliness of the room plateaued, and his whimper-like snores took hold of the silence.

It was a new day; specifically, the extraordinarily hot day that was June 26th, 1990, and Carl refused to recall the events of the previous night. He skipped out to the garden and was taken aback by the mountain

of cameras and people stepping over each other to worship the butterfly’s daily routine. But, he was affable to each admirer that shoved their way to talk with him. The very sight of the butterfly was utterly fascinating and brought a euphoric sensation to the citizens of Envy Valley, as a sight like this was foreign to them. Many offered him money, gifts, a lifetime supply of extra creamy oat milk even, all for the butterfly. But he would not accept. Then, a man with a buttercup fastened in his small blazer pocket elegantly approached.

“Hello, sir,” Carl greeted the fellow.

“Hello to you too!” the man said charmingly.

“Well… is there anything I can help you with?”

“Indeed, there is! I would like to make a trade!”

“A trade of what sort?”

“I assume you’re aware of the captivating specimen that frolics about your garden… Yes?”

“Yes, you assume correctly… Now what is it I can help you with?”

“I, Mr. Gerard Niamsworth, would like to trade whatever it is you desire most, for that… very… creature,” he slowly confessed, his eyes never letting go of the butterfly.

“Oh my. Well, Mr. Niamsworth, I’m sorry to disappoint, but that butterfly over there is a free creature. I cannot sell it, and you cannot take it.”

“Borrow, then?!” Niamsworth chuckled, but was met with a cold, pitiful smile. “There is really nothing that you want?”

Carl stared at him awhile, thinking, debating, and getting distracted by the “oohs” and “ahhs” from the remaining spectators.

“Aha, so there is something you want! Come on now, out with it!”

“I want to… um… You’re going to think I’m ridiculous!”

“Ridiculousness is my specialty, now tell me.”

“Well, Sir Niamsworth, I’d like to be the butterfly that occupies my garden.”

A wide-eyed Niamsworth gestured to the two bulky men at his side, whispering into their ears, still keeping Carl in his view. They walked away, and Carl began to retreat back inside when he felt something grip his arm. He sharply turned his head and found he was staring at the flaky, callused hand of Gerard Niamsworth.

“Mr. Niamsworth, our business is done here!” Carl announced. “I’ve fulfilled exotic requests before. If you trust me, accept it.”

Two bricks of men marched in from the raven-black Cadillac on the left side of Carl’s slanted mailbox, followed by the biggest flowers Carl had ever seen. Niamsworth said nothing. Smiling with his eyes, nose, and mouth, he bowed to Carl. Carl wasn’t moving. He knew now Niamsworth would stop at nothing for the butterfly. Carl kept thinking and thinking, could Niamsworth give him what he wanted? What would he do without the butterfly, how would he spend his time? What if he didn’t have to worry about that? He could just fly around all day, no cares, and everywhere he went, adoration could follow. Carl was so stuck in his head, he was