Papillon Butterfly Novels & Stories

In front of her was the field of flowers of different colors and sizes. After a while, a black butterfly flew from its hiding place at the back of roses. As the butterfly approached her, she lifted her right hand. The insect landed on her fingers. “What did you all get for me this time?” she asked the butterfly. To anyone who could witness what she was doing, they might think she had gone insane. But it wasn’t the case she was like that. She found a talent of her own when she was just a little girl. She could talk to animals, plants, and insects.

All of the smells were incredible, like a perfume garden coming to life. Then there was a flash of blue! A butterfly landed on a purple flower, its color similar to that of the summer sky. It opened its wings, revealing a variety of colors, including dark purple, bright blue, and a hint of yellow. It resembled a genuine jewel, a tiny bit of magic!

It was a butterfly. I blinked twice in amusement and slowly reached out, only for it to fly over a potted hydrangea in the corner. I contented myself with watching from afar. It flapped its majestic wings elegantly— black etched with purple dots and an intricate pattern on the sides. Somewhere on the internet, someone pointed out that butterflies cannot actually see their wings. I wonder if it was actually true and what a shame that would be. To be so beautiful and yet so painfully unaware.

Of course, with a little card like this: Dear Cara, This is the world’s largest butterfly, whose female wings can span up to 280 mm. They flutter in the air like pixies dancing in the sky. Do they resemble the ones that triggered the butterfly effect in the A****n rainforest? (Haha…just kidding, they only dwell in New Guinea:p) …… So I was quite astonished by this seemingly ordinary gift. I pressed the DV boot button and expected to watch my dad’s new “Amazing species” videos. But the DV storage file was blank.

My breath hitched as I looked up. The first butterfly appeared, its wings painted with blues and golds that shimmered like stained glass. It landed on the rim of my mixing bowl, tasting the air. Then another came. And another. Soon, dozens danced around me, drawn by the Potion’s call. The crowd gasped, their fear forgotten for a moment, replaced by wonder.

Chloe announced to her assembled classmates, "we are going to learn about the life cycle of the painted lady butterfly. Anya, please distribute the coloring sheets." Anya handed out the pages with the efficiency of a seasoned assistant. "I colored mine already. I used purple." "Butterflies aren't purple," one of the boys protested. "Some butterflies are purple," Chloe said firmly. "The purple emperor butterfly is native to Europe and parts of Asia. It's very rare." "How do you know that?" "I read books. You should try it sometime."

In a hushed tone, Gerella assured, “We’re going on a trip together, some place nice and cozy.” “Will that place have big, buu paa-pee-lionibus?” Little Isla had been fascinated by papilionibus ever since she noticed the protection mark on everyone’s necks that bore the symbol, even her own. Gerella once told Isla that papilionibus were blue, showing the girl a picture of the insect from a book that had been handed down for generations. Gerella held on to her excited smile and said, “Who knows? We might just see them.”

“Lass, you can start identifying these beasts, we'd add the result to your previous stage's points.” I curtseyed without saying anything. Walking up to the first, large cage. There was the Copper-winged Eagle. It was a male and had a very arrogant look in its eyes. It was quite easy to identify this one. Then, suddenly, I noticed the lethal energy pouring out from its wings and shook my head with a smirk. “This is a Russet Poison-type Eagel!” One of the men gave out a laugh filled with mockery. “Do you have a problem, sir?”

I finally look up, smiling to see thousands of butterflies of all different sizes and colors hovering around me. Some rest upon my work equipment, some found seating on my shoulders and head, while others flap their dainty wings to stay close to my perfume that oozed with a smell that I know is delectable to their kind. It is a pretty site in fact, but I know the next step would only be more wonderful. Still conscious of time, I only have a couple of minutes left. And whilst Raphael seems overly confident to begin with, he now doesn’t look so sure as to whether I’d lose.

But also… longing. Pop whistles low and pats the seat beside him. That’s where I go. As I sit, I finally clue into the conversation. “Ītzpāpālōtl is called the Obsidian Butterfly because her wings are made of obsidian,” Huitzilopochtli says. “What’s obsidian?” Micah asks. “It’s a strong volcanic glass,” Meredith answers. Huitzilopochtli nods. “Beneath her wings, she’s vulnerable. That’s where to strike.”