Mahogany's Role

This is the first main page of Winter's Butterfly

The Butterfly Wanders Off Its Cages

> “
> “If we’ve been bamboozled long enough, we tend to reject any evidence of the bamboozle. We’re no longer interested in finding out the truth. The bamboozle has captured us. It’s simply too painful to acknowledge, even to ourselves, that we’ve been taken. Once you give a charlatan power over you, you almost never get it back.”
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> — *Carl Sagan, 1996*
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**M**A*h***o**gany'sㅤ*ㅤRoleㅤ*

`i. Prologue`

"♫ She's got eyes of the bluest skies

♫ As if they thought of rain

♫ I'd hate to look into those eyes and see—"

"Hey, Carney!"

"Huh?"

"Carney!"

"Holy, what does this guy possibly want from me?"

THE ONE calling is my father.

"Hey, son. Err, mind meetin' me 'round our homestead whenever ya got a spare moment?"

"Oh, of course. What for, pa?"

His tone was unidentifiable in a way that was particularly inconsistent, as if he was longing for something. Was he sad? No, I doubt it; his tone was also vaguely indifferent. Relieved, maybe? Tired? Doesn't matter much, I suppose.

"Jus' for a chat. Reckon we'll be reminiscin' 'bout them past memories, maybe?" he replied, letting out a sigh. "Well, don't ya worry 'bout it none. Drop on by whenever the spirit moves ya!"

Then, he retreated back to where he came from. Though I was compelled to go and find out what the matter was, he made it seem like this "talk" wasn't germane to anything I was doing then. So naturally, I waited for a long while, head empty, before I came to my senses and went to see him. Call it callousness, and perhaps you would be right. Apparently, I left him waiting long enough for him to think that he could clandestinely finish a cigar in time. When I got there, he was still smoking one. Upon noticing me, he gestured awkwardly and attempted to hide it, visibly trying to avoid bringing attention to the situation, but deflating as soon as he realized he was already caught in the act. Not that it mattered to me as much as he would have thought, though.

"Hey… Carney. …ya—" he said, a little inarticulately, before I interrupted him: "Hold that thought, pa. You were… puffin' a cigar?"

"Well, champ. Your old man's gotta… find himself a leisure during tough times. I mean, you won't tell your mom, will ya?"

"No, no. It isn't nothing to fret about. So, what's on your mind, dad?" I decided to not voice my humorous thought that it would be regarding this new "leisure" of his. Well, it was much more important than that, anyway. He cleared his throat and took a deep breath. "Well, Carney, I just wanted to tell you that… I'm proud of you, y'know?" I chuckled, surprised and sounding almost monotone. "Old news… not to sound pretentious," I said.

"Nah, it's alright," he spoke, throwing the cigar he previously held away. "You know how children are often supposed to be their parents' …spitting image, as some people around here say? Not that it always occurs, but it's frequent enough to have this concept built around it," he said, tone almost heavy. "And frankly, a man my age, regardless of all he's renowned for, is prone to his faith slipping away over time. Though… it may seem unlikely. That sanctuary I established here in Mahogany was too much of a motivator, but it's already been a while."

"Dad, is this self-doubt? If it helps, your titles hold pride in my heart. You've done a lot for us, all of us, seriously—"

"Carney, son. This ain't about me as much as it is about you," he said as he poked me lightly on the chest. "You're my kin, my young 'un, my heir, the spitting image of me. It was my duty to show you the ropes, to teach you our ways—and just look at ya now. From a chunky li'l tyke to a sprout in this here boomtown, part of a group that's gaining steam and catching folks' eyes. You're near fit to be the Chief Guard of The Ezekiels, a role folks would give their boots for!"

"Those some very generous words of you, pa. It sure was a long road, but… I guess you're right. It paid off, though, wasn't our initial goal to raise our funding so I—"

"Could go off a decent college? Like one in Durham, most likely?" He interrupted me, laughing softly, but not that I had anything important to say. "Well, since then, it's become more'n just a way of doin' things, it's a whole lifestyle now. Been that way right from the get-go. We didn't get here by blowing smoke up Mr. Nathan Miles' ass or doin' somethin' equally foolish for years. Nah, we got here 'cause we busted our behinds, worked hard every step of the way. And even if my dedication to the Grenzeville Children starts fadin' as I get older, there'll still be a legacy I leave behind. Now, son, let me ask ya somethin': what does that mean for you?"

This question, as perplexing as it was, felt like it's something I can easily answer and without a grain of hesitation. But it isn't easy for me to get there, because my mind was in denial. I didn't want to admit it, but I did. "Pa… I ain't tryin' to be selfish, but even though I been right in the thick of this whole religious… whatever you call it, my thought span didn't extend beyond a certain point, that being getting to college with the sufficient funds, of course. What would that mean for me?

He coughed a little before he spoke, but he looked nowhere as dismayed as I expected him to be. "Carney, therein lies your answer. Your 'immersion in this establishment' was the primary motivator for me, your mother, and your brother to keep kicking. And that's why I'm proud of you. And that's what it should mean to you, that you should let my pride motivate you to follow my path and embrace my legacy. It's what Mr. Miles says; it's what everyone around here says."

It was all too sudden for me to process instantly, but I smiled, and was met back with my own father's smile, as joyous and proud as ever. "Thanks, pa. I'm determined to keep this faith going. I really am."

"Well, that's what I like t'hear. Good luck on your journey, trooper. Don't let it come to naught."

`ii. Dedication`

For all of you out there.

"Truthfully, I never was intrigued by anything physical since Earth was formed." *— The Temporal Yellow*

Chapter 1: Mahogany's Role, Part 1
"Cherry Farm"

A FEW MONTHS AFTER I WAS BORN, the paint of our bungalow—previously a refuge for Confederate soldiers—was starting to rot. It wasn't long after some black mold spread through like an expanding, woven fractal, and we had to sleep on another person's mattress. When I was old enough to realize that it wasn't a parasitic act from Pied Piper, I was still asking about it, to the annoyance of others and especially my brothers.

        "When you're done rambling about that, the town's children would finally return," they always say.

        The twilight is the story, for I'm the light.

       Growing up, I had two siblings: Marshall and Jordan. They're two and five years older than me, respectively. Of course, they'd taunt me, oftentimes calling me the "first demon" that our mother brought, which was supposedly me—"the Thirteenth Windmüller," a disparaging nickname they'd coined; and the mold the second, as it happened right after I came out of the womb. The surname—one from our great great great grandfather who came from northern Germany—was included to make it more personal for me, and my father, Carney Sr., would pinch their ears tightly until they became lukewarm roses as God's will.

       It'd never fail to entertain me, at least, until I'd also get punished, usually for shattering windows , where they'd call me a hypocrite. My mother, a yuppie who eventually married into the grass fields, would always make jams and tarts, picks Montmorency cherries that were originally brought from the northeast Michigan in the rural parts of Traverse City, in the garden of our religious organization—the Grenzeville Children of Ezekiel. The summer was usually when she was out of home when the red orbs would spring up. And the people there were also the ones who gave us a temporary home while ours was infested. It's a four-hundred-yard walk to get the cherries to our home, so she just made it there herself. We live about north in the tight-knit community of around one hundred and fifty people, in Mahogany, North Carolina, nine miles away from Durham. It's pretty much rural, so we were self-sufficient in our fresh produce—we don't want any waxes or chemicals in our fruits like the ones in groceries.

       I disdained the rurality at first, though. It was boring, and school wasn't better either. Summer vacations were just shifts: all I had to do was work, where I had to help my mother pick cherries—even on Saturdays and Sundays. I'd be damned if I went like this for another six to five years, missing out on those religious and fancy dinners they were holding every month or playing with my brothers or friends. I remember, the first few days, I'd sleep at three in the dawn so I could have an excuse to avoid greasing my elbows, 'cause picking cherries, for me, felt like I was assigned by God to individually check for the forbidden fruit. The knocking on my door would usually wake me up when I was only asleep for an hour or two—that's how early you'd have to get up in the morning if you don't want to waste those precious little, sour flesh to rats. I'd always be half asleep—and that's intentional—so she wouldn't walk me there, because half-sleepers would half-ass their jobs, and she had a pet peeve for that: it'd be better if I didn't come than to be present there and not do anything.

       When this thing I've got going worked for a little while, I figured that I could extend the number of days I did it. In that time, cherry trees, inundated earlier with white petals in blossom seasons, began to gray and turn into round reds, as days turned to weeks. Nevertheless, being traditional farmers doesn't mean we were simple-minded—because frankly—my parents were clever. I didn't notice at first: they'd put coffee in my breakfast brownies and give me orange-flavored energy drinks. Then, they'd stay up all night scrutinizing the doorway to my bedroom to catch any noise I'd make playing my Nintendo. And, one day, they eventually caught on.

       "C'mon, c'mon!" I loudly whispered as I was playing.

       I was covered by a thick blanket, so I thought the threads of wool would barricade the sound from emanating outside.

       "Carney…" both my parents exclaimed.

       "Oh, shoot! Good God!" I whisper-screamed, as I rushed to hide the device under stacks of baskets.

       While the door visually blocked the revelation I so squeamishly locked, the sound snitched quietly as the blanket switched over to my parents' side, betraying me.

       From then on, I couldn't crawl under their floorboards again. That my subterfuge was no longer foolproof is a Lorem ipsum; and my awake eyelashes, still covered with eye poo, gone too obvious. And it was without no punishment for my dishonest slickness, for I had to collect more cherries than her, so I was even more damned than I was going to be in the first place. An Oregon cherry I became, as toward the sunsets and sunrises after the incident, the water balloon that contained my anger burst from the relentless Southwest heat. I repeatedly disturbed my father when he was writing for the town's news—of which its most captivating headlines were cats stuck upon twigs. He blatantly developed a mutual feeling, one where we hated each other, but he wasn't bitter enough to be virulent—his veterancy of about two decades in the Herald-Sun secured his job from being burnt.

       A man of strong will, he is, because he lay no hands on me. On the other hand, however, my mother would hit me on the wrist with coat hangers for all those hitting with typewriter keys I did; it was certainly one thing, but because she served as a nurse in the boondocks of Đồng Nai her accuracy was on point. And he likely saw it, so he thought it'd be better if he just became an innocuous castor bean. And like the rudimentary cavemen they are, my brothers tittered in the audience seats. At those junctures, I felt like closing the curtains for good.

       He'd go on for three nights—he’d enter my tight-knit room of several toys and devices, like they are amalgamated to form a community; no longer wound up like a spring, he’d blather about anything to make me happier; sometimes, even, he’d somewhat impact me; and the fruit sweat was starting to cool. On the last day, however:

       "Why'd you still down?" He asked, concerned and flustered, but blaséd.

       I attempted closing the dam to hide my exclamation: "Nothing, dad."

       "Well, looks to me that'cha still got shampoos on your eyes."

       "…What's it mean?"

       "Well, I'll tell you what. It's that li'l waterfall on your cheeks."

       "Can't help it since I keep helping on the fields."

       "I know, but just 'cause you feel it, don't mean anyone else feels it. I'm not going to bore you with 60s cherry pickin'; it's that you've got to get goin'."

       "How, though?"

       "You're… a sloth, Carney."

       "I am?"

       "Yes, and you can't do nothing about it."

       "That isn't right."

       "Oh, Carney. You're gon find soon enough that it's not about changing as a person, but it's about picking all the good cherries in 'em."

       "Why am I a sloth then?"

       "Wipe your face first, it's chippin' your chin away more than a mouth breather."

       He wipes away my face as if he was carving Mount Rushmore.

       "But…"

       "But what? I've told you not to breathe through your mouth, I can still see it's receded," he says.

       "Just tell me about the sloth, please."

       "Alright, but you've ought to listen to me. I can tell the last two times I talked to ya, it seems like it passed your left ear and went out on the right."

       "I promise [with] my pinkie."

       "Well, Carney, you know how sloths are lazy'n 'n' all? But, they're not just that. Every animal has their positive side, and for the sloth, it's their patience. When you come out there, patience is like a McGuffin."

       "Go out where?"

       "Everywhere. But, for now at least, it's right there.

       "That's the farm, right?"

       "Mhm, but the farm ain't everything, nor is it everywhere. There's a lot more cherry pickin' to do in life. And I believe in you, but you have to do me two favors: one, dad wants you to show your cherries; and two, go to sleep, it's eight o'clock. And sleep tight, Carney."

Unlike the two other talks I had with him, he didn't kiss me goodnight or show any warmth, but as if I was a four-dimensional being, I could see his complicated sigh of relief as he was closing the door behind. And in the following days, all I heard from him were footsteps and wood creaks, staying silent 'till I'd prepare my tarnished, green, leather boots, when he'd simply say, "Embrace the sloth, Carney!"

       I became a model after some reassurances; even I was partly involved in making desserts from the cherries. The goodness was felt, knowing that my mother would smile at even the sight of my presence. It was like chipping away minutes or even hours—its repetitiveness wasn't of no concern, because it's just like surgery. One moment you're awake, and the next, you check the time and it's already four o'clock. And when we're done, after the Walk of Fame to the bungalow, the sky's already pitch dark. And because of the blankness of rural forests, especially the ones beside the Flint residence—one of our close neighbors—where like infinite space, anything that could be there would be there.

       "You've been watching *The Exorcist* too much," as repeated by my family. But I could've sworn some Prussian haints—some of whom may be disgruntled relatives—to turn haint blue's light vibe to a darker, Prussian blue. My later phantasms were weirdly consistent, almost. I'd still be thinking about that long in the tooth. But, Marshall, who woodworks with my father not too yonder from the farm (close to the Greek revival-style rendezvous), would seriously convince me to hurtle toward one if I catch one again as a sick joke. The only problem was that, to his vexedness, they appeared as bright, smiley faces without anything it would be otherwise attached to. So, how would I even attack one? While it may have been the midnight oil I've been burning that keeps it lit, some were as far as Durham. I kept being bothered about it, like the black mold thing all over again, though I could fight back if I wanted to. And I did, though we were far, far too old to fistfight about it, so I needed to prove them wrong.

       "Don't stick your hand up your ass too deep, you're gonna get hurt if you chase one of 'em in the bushes," Marshall said sarcastically.

       "Hey, don't swear like that! And I'm also a grown-up now; I don't care!"

       "Shh! Don't disturb the Flints, they're already asleep!" My mother ironically shouted upon hearing the ruckus.

       We kept walking, though I never saw the face. I was sure it heard our conversation, because this walk in particular was the first one in a week where I didn't see it. However…

       "Mr. Gregory Flint's garden is creepy, doesn't it?" I said, to stir the topic off course.

       "Don't judge other people's property, Carney. How would you feel if Mr. and Mrs. Flint starts commenting about our home?" My mother replied.

       "Sorry, mom. I was just say—"

       And there it was: a glow. I suddenly glanced at it. It was roughly behind the corner. Though I didn't see the actual face, I could tell from the reflection from the odd, yellow wall of the Flints' residence.

       "Uh—"

       "Carney?" Both of my brothers and my mother blatted.

       "They installed another LED light, didn't they?"

       Like a scarecrow, I couldn't do much other than existing. The thought of jumping toward it flowed into the Atlantic. But, I quickly grabbed it before it could drift far away enough. I knew it was going to exacerbate the situation even more, but I decided to do it.

       I quickly rushed for it, numbed from the conscious world—I even forgot about swinging my arms as I was running.

       When I've realized what I was doing, the house's corner was already too big to go 'round it. (Crack!). My sight was tainted red.

       My foray had gotten me a horrid cut that barely missed my left eye, running through the tear trough. The ground below was tainted with cherry juice, and like a gypsy, it went until my tongue, though this time, it was iron and irony-tasting.

       While gnarly, I still had to go with my mother—seeing as it was a gnarly time too to discipline me for being ignorant. And as well as my brother, so my motivation to go was unprecedented, there wasn't a dog in that snitches-get-stitches fight. He and I never brawled while working, however; perhaps all the warm air was all sniffed by the canines.

       The small flap of skin that hung over, although slight, was more freakish than the nose's node. Marshall had the cringe job of snitching it; he almost killed me by vomiting at my face.

       And when three weeks had gone by, when the cut had scarred, it was time for a talk. I'd gone every day there and stayed 'till the night owl came except for Sunday—the day for a half job. My mentality was that I should've been getting something better than cherry cakes, which I'd be a nitpick about 'cause how often I got it for a sugar crush. Gotten tired, they'd offer me even more bakeries as if Mr. Murphy had come to town or something, and that would lead to the same outbursts. Their sighs of relief turned to shit!-here-we-go-again faces, as I have my joy was put into comatose with the job taking over. The bellyache made them offer the green doughs for their final dun; I hotheadedly declined, however. It now felt like a mundane scientific paper, and a Sitzfleisch was now a craving for my buttocks.

       However, I've never gotten a chance to talk, and I was reaching the top of a firework trail. The only way of relief, as I saw it, was to simply run away from home and stay in one of the Grenzeville cabins with bedrooms of constant crackling of bedbugs, probably the worst of what North Carolina could offer. But, no deterrence was going to make me do an adult's day's work. So, for two days, I conceived a plan. Being less than five feet, I could narrowly fit through the frame of the only window of my room. And continuing the strike of convenience, the crushing of wood chips by the upper jamb nor the wood creaks would be heard even if you were to put your ears on the doorknob, as it sat on the opposite side of the room.

       Seemingly nullified of retaliation, my parents haven't paid close attention to me as of recently. Soon, it was the cherry-picking season. At around the noon of night, when the parasites were waiting, I lifted my feet slower than their walking speed and made my way to the window. I couldn't care less if the Devil's Tramping Ground were following my trails, but I might've been cursed the childhood scares of haints from the Treachery hit by speeding cars on the small roads.

       I began to make my way to a camping trail that was near the main gathering, where an abandoned trailer sits upon there. The outside was covered in sticky vines as if it had already digested by a cow, and its walls were that of Swiss cheese with dimples. However, when I glanced at it through the top edge of a hill—fully expecting Cinderella the housemaid—I saw her with glass shoes. The inside looked like something a disgruntled yuppie would enjoy his rural life in, though there was a subtle, rotten smell that probably slipped through the ventilation shaft. But, anything was fair game, and when I closed the almost collapsing door, I tiredly jumped to the mattress.

       At that moment, my river of adrenaline was leveled by the mushy landslide of its lather texture. It felt like a ready bathtub rather than a bed, so it was no wonder the bedbugs weren't here: they'd all drowned within the balloon-like pillows. Yet, I hoped I could've complained about its softness further because I could've sworn I heard footsteps calmly hurdling toward me.

       The workers had cleaned up the landslide too fast, and I was struggling to find a place to hide. The bed had no space under it for me to hide with the monsters, nor were there any cabinets I could hide in. The only option I had was the unnecessarily long curtains that were adjacent to the bed, so I tried hiding in the corner of the bed while I was blanketed by it.

       But, thankfully, the footsteps stopped at a considerable distance—

       (Knock, knock!), "Anyone there?"

       "Wait, what?" I thought to myself.

       Either the knocking on the door was from Bigfoot or her feet was like one.

       It was the familiar voice of Jem "Londoner" Tarling, an assistant for the organization's leader, Nathan Miles.

       I covered my mouth to hide my breaths as if the magic cloth of invisibility wasn't already enough. Because she was in her late-forties, I could lie there thinking there'd be no wood to creak and rat me out. For almost half an hour, I tirelessly switched between squatting and standing up to make sure her similarly slick nature (to my parents) wouldn't catch me like a deer hunter.

       Still paranoid, however, I tried making no noises when I went to get some rest, though I ended up waking up some would-be owl prey. I'd admit, though, that the mattress was like a Z-drug for me because when I was already half-asleep, I'd forgotten to turn off the cabinet lamp. And then, I wondered how Madam Tarling didn't notice it was on, but I've already gone too far into dreamville to connect the roads.

Chapter 1: Mahogany's Role, Part 2
"SHORT-TIMERS"

       "Community service ain't enough for him, huh? You want a life sentence?" I heard in the distance.

       The air was tenderized, and levitation was like a sense; I couldn't pick up the heavy leaves foliage even if I lay prone. Of where I am was no question: it was the cherry farm, but its trees' trunks were elongated, but with their officiousness still there. Plump and succulent. Grenzeville looked more saturated. I thought: A qualm would be appropriate. It'd be good if that was true for longer, but it was then disturbed by a vulture. A calling. Did the jaunt have holes punched to them? Because where I had walked a few droplets ago, there was now a cottage. I went inside—it was as barren as my predictions—and there I went outside. To my inelegance, on the last step, a plank creaked, and a search and destroy captured me. At least use a handkerchief instead of rope.

       A sentence woke me up, as it was rejoicefully uttered: "Jem! It's been a while, isn't it?"

       More unusual things were brought in, however: Other than her prissiness gone, as if it ended up on the news about the Taco Bell Strangler, there was the smell of saliva that tainted the mattress and I'd got a wet, niffy cheek. When my nonexistent eyelid opened, I saw the door bashed open. There was a line that ran through the wall beside it, with some wood dust on the floor.

       Sleep-thinking, still drowsed but alarmed. "Miss Tarling… Is that you…?" I thought with ants in head like a TV static.

       Before my arm had woken up, two shadows walked past, as if intentionally taunting or startling me. And the latter worked; I quickly realized it was Tarling's, and crushingly, my mother, with her lineamental bun.

       I regretted not asking my father about his time with the Marvins and Arvins and how he escaped blitzes; it would've fared well for me. So, without holes in a Whac-A-Mole, it seems like I was going to get showered in hammers once I got past the ear pinching.

       To soften up whatever she had left, I simply went outside and waited there, rigidly with my lips sucked. It seems like Tarling had sucked up all of my mother's attention through the straw of time; it also felt like hours before she finally waved a sarcastic goodbye and turned toward me. She probably made up in her mind: This little whippersnapper's chose bedbugs over sugar for friends.

       The walk wasn't anything heartfelt either—no advises, no sunrises—it had rained all week, and the clouds aren't seemingly content yet. But, with the tensing up before, I walked as if my legs had braces instead of my bitter teeth. I didn't eat too much slices, though caries don't make you feel like falling through the ground to disappear completely.

      I'm like a captured Fritz awaiting the sound of a single bullet.

       One step, I counted, then again. After that, however, I stepped on a puddle—then I felt something crawling in my shirt. It was a spider. Most kinds that are brave enough to approach me are the ones that'd make an on-the-fritz bite at you and run away. There was another this-little-whippersnapper thought again—I could see it through, with her imagining it on a faint throne—but as she caught wind of a black dot on my chin, she looked at it like a hyperbole, maybe a Mephisto.

       "What are you doing?"

       I looked at her, then on the juices of the spider ironed by the heavy drops, then back on her. So that the insect won't foreshadow my fate, I waited 'till the rain washes away the thought in her mind. The odyssey stood still after that.

       At home, when she slowly takes off her Calvin Klein, all I needed and hoped for was an anti-climax. Popping veins in my head, and with tingling hands, I jackknifed like a drunk truck toward my room and waited.

       When the record player had already became a ceramic plate, she finally but unfortunately went into my room. I had it overly locked threefolds: two latch locks and the knob, though its protection lasted as long as an eggshell. You could've told me that I was going to be a bloodied photograph in the newspapers tonight, and I would've believed you—with her tone in the conversation with my father that I eavesdropped, a sarcastic turned serious one, about how the me-becoming-a-bum-hillbilly prophecy was true.

       Footsteps came again—like Miss Tarling—but now instead with the anger of a disappointed mother. Extra loud, metatarsals more frigid. It wasn't an amble nor was it a long haul, and when she got to my room, moments later, she had already stood up right next to me when my head ran empty.

       "How many times… do I need to tell you?"

       I mustered up all my emotional strength. It occurred to me that something had gone wrong: Her voice was like a slab beaten down by the shoes of laughing bargoers, and a sinkhole underneath those mockings. I tried not to show empathy toward her; she had treated me like a chattel, so I was like a now free fugitive that ran from Virginia to Pennsylvania and to Nova Scotia (through Montreal) that has returned. And I wished all the cherries were burned down and their souls left to rot.

       "What's wrong?" I replied heavily, hoping to deter the debacle.

       She then sat on my bed beside me, and like the creak that happened afterwards, she said:

       "Either you make this an ultimatum or not, but I won't care, Carney."

       "No, ma, I— I want to know."

       "I give you time to think."

       The burning thought of the cherry farm came up again. I looked at the fire, then to her chin, then back to my lap. It felt like being the culprit in a police lineup.

       "Many people dream about work as little as three times as hard as you. Some can't even dream it."

       She now treated me as if I was a malady. I was disgruntled but sorrow. The air around us began to feel like a descending elevator—an invisible weight that would eventually crash upon you.

       I was sure I didn't fully grasp the scope of the situation, so I chose to use my convenient deflection skills to absorb the fall, but regretfully so.

       "You've got a stain on that checkered shirt, mom."

       "I don't want to hear anything else. Please, Carney."

       "Why?"

       Her kids-being-kids belief dissipated away, and the look on her face didn't do me good either. She lifted her legs, put her crossed her arms, and her head sloped downwards. A subtle snivel I heard. The thought of the cherry burning stuck out in my mind, and it punctured out, and so I was there: waiting in grips dotted with spikes. The weight of her Sisyphean turned Promethean task, carried by a tear, and soaked by the mattress.

       "Mom, why'd you cry?" I let go.

       I prayed to God to let me wipe the tears away, but now chained by the fabric that would painfully remind me of the bitter taste of the cherry. She had the stance of a last trench soldier, and her time in Vietnam might've toughened up her shell, but it was me. I was the redear of her story. My strongest bones couldn't stand again, to pick more cherries, from the droplet that contained all of the rainstorm's drops.

       A few reconsiderations were made during the moment of silent that followed, trivial to major, but my mother had the former, which was her decision to leave now or later. Eventually when she did, the room was so quiet the fireflies in my ear have hummed, hungry for a noise. But the thought of that couldn't cheer me up, torn apart 'till I had to be bed-ridden.

       That twilight, when the tears had hardened, I went to the bathroom to wash my feet. I'd forgotten to coming back home—"that could've made her even more angry," I thought.

       While only a one and a half hour nap, I had two dreams shoved in a tight space like an apathetic grazier's farm after a months trip to Cancun. I'd dream of falling into vertical portals stacked onto each other like cakes after I'd done a sin, and this time wasn't an anomaly. The other one, I was walking on the outlines left out from the ceramic tiles of my floor, as if they were threads, carefully so as to not fall and fuck up with a wheeze.

       Some languid sounds of two confidant voices came before the tiles while in the middle of my business. It probably came from the back side of our porch, and when I almost tipped over the accent table after sauntering like an asinine Charlie. I looked over past the wall, swag, and window: Both my parents, their hand and intergalactic problems propped under their chin, were standing idly overlooking the forest where the mold came from.

       "What're they talking 'bout?"

       It seemed like there was no dollars to get if I eavesdropped them, so I intentionally took a loud step, though not loud enough to make it sound like an accidental, explosive whiff. They, after all the problems and sloths, surprisingly welcomed me softly—my mother especially seemingly having a one-eighty. Now, with only two fates, dream one or two, I just need to pray I don't end up like the first-dream version of me, falling even further.

Chapter 1: Mahogany's Role, Part 3
"Habenaria"

LONG AFTER MY FATHER’S SOUL WAS POURED INTO THE RIVERS OF ADAM AND EVE’S, A NEW DAY BEGINS, AND THE SUN RISES ONCE MORE. I woke up to the daily routine of mine that I had made after I graduated from Duke, and went for a morning walk to finish my duties in Grenzeville. A couple of memoirs passed by me after a few minutes. Passing by a creek, I noticed the Children of Grenzeville’s lone Mahogany refuge had stood a decade ago. It had been inherited from me in 1991, and I did a routine visit as well as a cleanup of the abandoned property as the interior had gathered enough dust to give a person tuberculosis.

       The title of the head keeper of two important locations: the Mahogany cottage and the church of Ezekiel, which were passed down to me when my father passed away. And speaking of titles, ‘twas an annoyance when my father’s title of the elder wasn’t honored to me immediately. Maybe I didn’t work hard enough, or perhaps Miles hadn’t seen that in me yet—and I must admit that I’m not as hardworking as him, nor am I as ebullient as him when I get a moniker like that.

       Those thoughts and memories were melodies and games when I was walking. In the distance of the morning mist, I beheld the traces of adolescence life before me–a tapestry of adolescent life painted into the landscape. *At first there was nothing, and soon there was everything if you could say that*. The things that I saw in my reminiscences of my father's conversations were enough to push me to continue serving for Miles' shenanigans, so I swiftly jogged there with a pair of thick sweater on. And soon, it made a counterintuitive state, as the outside was breezingly cold while I began to sweat beneath the fabric. However, when I saw a sight of the site just below the street, I paused.

       I suddenly remembered the time when I was cycling through Hwy 86. It was regarding an old, feeblemight African-American perhaps in his seven or eighties with a basket of orchids noticed the half-broken training wheels on the back of my bike. He shouted and yelled an inaudible sentence at the direction where I traveled (he was quite afar and the crickets rhythmically chirping in the grove surrounding us didn't help either), though I assumed it had something to do with my rusted wheels hanging on dear life. The distance between him and I made him a little tantalizing in a good way, as if he is trying to help me dismantle them old back ones of mine. When I approached the man carefully with a sense of his goodwill, he predictably told me that, upon noticing a grown teen still cycling with those 'damn children's wheels,' he had to draw closer so he could ask me about it.

       "You's a grown teenager, why are you still riding with those?" He said with dismay.

       "What's the matter, sir?" I replied.

       "Do you mind if I ask what your age is?"

       "I'm, uhm, 14, sir."

       "14? Did your father teach you anythin'?"

     Above all else, I knew the man's suspicion was regarding this six-feet-looking-man cycling with four wheels on. I went on to briefly explain that the bike was not mine, and I said,

      "Well, uhm, here's the thing. This bike ain't mine, sir. Mine's still fixin', ya see. I just up and borrowed one from my brother, is all."

        "And how old is he?"

       "Like, uh, seven?"

     "I suggest that you pull them off. I can hear it begging to be put off. It's just desperately hanging on there."

       "I… I reckon I ain't rightly sure 'bout doing that, sir. My brother might not take too kindly to it, ya know? He's got a bit of a temper when it comes to his things."

       "Well, tough luck, then. And by the way, I would like to ask what your name is."

       "Name's Carney, sir. May I ask what your name is too?"

       "You don't have to call me 'sir.' You can call me Franklin or Hope, which one you'd like."

       "It's mighty nice to meet you, Mister Hope. I gotta say, that's one mighty interesting name, for sure."

       "Haha, you must have a sense of humor, don't ya?"

       He then picked an orchid from his wicker basket and handed it to me; was it a gift? I doubt, but I chose not to abstain and he assertively put it on my palm. The petals: some intertwined, some were surpluses, but those xanthous ones really were handpicked carefully with attention—as if he was doing it for the adornment of his home or something. Unregretfully, once I saw the details, my arms and my pupils reflecting the morning sunlight more than a few seconds ago.

       "You know, these flowers are especially strong. They grow and grow, protrude out of the soil; they live off trunks (or ya might call them insects' bunks); they kind of mate, and make new flowers; and after all: they are living things too and perish."

       I knew those orchids were not native here, so I asked him: "Well, I must say, it looks mad gorgeous, but I ain't never laid eyes on them flowers yet. Must be they came from outside the North?"

       "It's not often you see these flowers around here. They aren't the usual bloomers you see in people's backyards; they came from the east. And for that thought of yours, they're called moth orchids."

       "Damn, that must've been one long journey, huh?"

       "Exactly, and that long journey is the journey… the journey you call life."

       I grasped on the "life" part within the context. He looked from my perspective and thought on his remark: a reference to the life of us flowers (humans as the blossoms-of-life-and-petals-as-stories) and the happy and sad and ugly journey us and them have gone through. Is it a metaphorical connection? No, perhaps not. The quintessence of life in the world does not hold value that can be measured, but rather, the appreciation for each is distinct and unparalleled.

       In that moment, my naivety toward the world really shattered. I thanked Mister Hope for the orchid he gave me and waved at him. Then, I was going to pedaled my way to a meadow, planning to circle around the land for a while, but I was curious about his wisdom and how a stranger is willing to share such knowledge arbitrarily to a sidecycler.

       "Hey, uhm, by the way…, mind if I inquire 'bout who you are?" I asked him.

       He stared at my direction with a side eye and slightly showed a smile, but did not say a word. A satchel that he had been carrying coincidentally included the things he needed: a pen and paper. He reached down the leather; the torn, warmer-colored scrap, still crumbled; and the master pen. It was a sight to see when he seemingly and haphazardly scribbled the paper, but when he handed me his 'scrawl,' I was astounded that it was not mere gibberish. Maybe I was addlebrained, but I pushed the confusion aside to the foliage and I flipped the paper and it wrote:

THE MASTERY OF A MAN IS NOT SPOKEN BY WORDS

THE MASTERY OF A MAN IS NOT SPOKEN BY ACTIONS

IT IS NOT SPOKEN BY, RATHER THROUGH THE DIVINE MAN: GOD.

HE IS MASTERY'S AND TRUTH'S MESSENGER.

THE MASTERY OF A MAN IS THAT MAN'S TRUTH

AND THE MASTERY OF A MAN CAN LEAD TO OTHER MEN TO SEEK THE **TRUTH**.

- John Hope Franklin.

       For me, the turning point or the enlightenment coming upon me was an act of divine power, an act of God and the Holy Trinity. And knowing that, I still ponder a mere shout of Thank You may not be enough for His augustness, but the lateness of the thought's emergence made me think that I may just look unsatisfactory or disappointing to Him. Thus, I felt compelled to continue my work for the organization just for him 'till when the sixth and dissipates, and a shinier day rises again.

Chapter 1: Mahogany's Role, Part 4
"Entanglement"

       WHEN THE JOURNEY OF DISCOVERY ENDED FOR MY FATHER, IT STARTED FOR ME. Both the people and the ground dressed in black and white, my grieving family and some Grenzeville members stood as the mahogany-colored coffin was lowered down. The cemetery's patch was clouded with a grim atmosphere. Dust and sand blanketed the monochrome grass we stood on; the lushing leaves of autumn from the forest trees surrounding us decayed without the foliage lying on the ground, and the eyes of everyone were washed with black ink. "Wait? Black eyes?" I noticed. I guess I was too far under mourn and too struck with grief to even realize. Not two seconds later, it was too late, though. Everyone turned their sights towards me, both cheeks sliced through, gums torn apart and bleeding. It was a supernightmarish gander that turned off the shower of emotions, their grieving countenance converted into Glasgow smiles.

       As I was about to run for my life, everything was colorful once again. Everyone's disconcerting smiles were, once again, tears. Glasgow was no more, yet it remained uneasy for me. Amidst everything, a priest handed me an envelope containing a note regarding my father's passing. Its contents were the exact same as Miles' missive, though with a new sentence written on the back of the paper: "In the memory of Carney Sr. May he rest. Now it's your turn to cease resting."

       I was taken aback by this encounter. My suspicion suddenly assumed Miles was behind the paranormal scene that occurred to me. It felt like I was mistrusting the man who helped me grow academically and develop a deeper understanding of life, so instead of acting upon a conclusion I jumped to this quickly, I consulted my brother.

       "The duality of man, huh? Is that what you're sayin'?" He said to me.

       "What? What do you mean?" I replied.

       "The guy, Miles, you said your nightmares had something to do with him?"

       "Well, I don't reckon it, but my gut's telling me so."

       "You better off smokin' indo marijuana than buyin' some from a shady mofo. That will get ya in tarnation, brother."

       "Jordan, this is serious. You know he's no hat and all cattle. I mean, we don't even know who he is. He might be the devil himself!"

       "If it was the sixties, I reckon you'd be long gone in sick lunatics' bay. Come on, go get some mosey or whatnot."

       From a magnanimous leader to a tyrant; the purported purport I purposely put on Miles. Jordan overexaggerated my suspicion to make me feel delusional, and his skeptical, almost ignorant responses made him think I was going to finagle Miles' greens to feed off of, like in my college years.

       I left the room, blatantly disgruntled, closing the door behind me quietly to cover it with a sense of adulthood maturity. However, I was rued—livid, even. Jordan, with his callously witty remarks, left no advice for me, and neither did the silly walk or the marijuana make me any less delusional. Juxtaposition's conglomerate, as you might describe the conversation, but never have I received such a strong and bothersome opposition from my brother. He is one of the main sources of guidance I would refer to, only second to my father. The mobs in Miles' group project, especially him, might "sugar–crash" after drinking too much Kool-Aid if someone even slightly criticizes his name.

       It was the first period of solitude that I lived through growing up. Was twelve years enough for me to cope with that loneliness? Most definitely, though I must admit: this case was different. It was esoteric. Inscrutable, even; people were, I guess, too blinded or were just that: people. Hence, I resorted to personification, more specifically, finding advice from the line of groves beside the gates that borders the woods with the local florist's. It reminded to remark a noteworthy figure whose name dwells in my ancestry, Ulysses Hawthorne, whose aggressive far-rightism inks his and our legacy. A Methodist and a methodist of his time, he practices the art of necromancy while also partaking in John Wesley's teachings.

       Like if Malcolm X was out on an ark, his insanity or questiness compelled him to yearn around the states, or I guess the colonies at the time, for a multitude of sorcery practices. Sorcery, or what he liked to call 'magick,' was commonplace in Silverbrook; the county had sketchy dorks, as you might say. The people's lineage, who once casted engravings of sorts, formed the basis of their practices. From what I know, most "spells" were onomatopoeic, a mishmash of them to be exact. They were hard to spell, and were specifically made to steer away illiterate 'goons'. It even came to the point of total prejudice and bigotry in some cases (be mindful, this was back in the Lincoln days).

       A years went by, he grew increasingly mad, and was eventually imprisoned; the foul smell of the cadavers was too strong to be kept hidden. As Southerners, we were of ignominious descent. One whose infamy stained us enough to not mention such a topic unless it was used as dark comedy. And to which, my brother said it involved my madness, although muffled as I have closed the door.

        "You ever thought of 'Thorne? I done tellin' it to ya, but could might he done possessed you?" He said, with a heavier tone this time.

       Part of the inquiry went in one ear and came out of the other. However, it piqued my interest to delve deeper into what the yapping of this figure from my ancestry was about. And in turn, a saddening revelation that was to be kept hidden from me during childhood years—one that might be related to Miles' stuff—was shined upon me. Perhaps not a revelation, but a sublimity that took a turn for the worst. My point still stands.

       Hawthorne's Methodism stemmed into the roots of my family's tree in the form of the Grenzeville Church. Perhaps the relation between religion and my family has been etched upon stone ever since he was born? I must admit: I have a slither of suspicion that directs me to this belief; however, it is difficult for me to prove as only silence surrounds his name and moniker. Dying on the Confederate's side of the Civil war, I can acknowledge their reason in hiding his dark side, but I could never understand gatekeeping and housekeeping the dust and dirt staining his name. I tend to find truth to be sweeter than a sugarcoat, more glamorous than exaggeration, etc., though most find it as a nastier Superman's S, despite what my father had taught me. Maybe to avoid disquietude, or to eliminate distaste, or to stay distant from controversy, yet I was still insinuated when I was told of him at eighteen years old when my cynicism reached peak.

       I did not want to be a child whose mind only comprehends crying when everything was abstruse, but this one time, what I was concerned about was held by familiar hands. Like a kidnapping statistic, kind of, but at least, I was able to be let out, and so it was. I let out my disappointment, let myself outside, let my 'disloyalty' out to stain the outdoors subsequently. Outdoors, but, specifically, where, though?

       Working for Miles is like working for the Trinity, against Satan and for Manhattan. A secrecy and a holy project if I had to describe, hence I feel special and big on such "employment", especially working in a Southern gothic-esque workplace, repeatedly doing woodwork that tires me and calms me. The thought of finishing is the thought of solitude, but even when I burn the midnight oil, I still find solace in this mundane task. There was a lot of dust and unfinished 'ritual' statues, or whatever they were coined as, which I was tasked to craft the week before.

        I imagined pieces of the statues; different sections, molecules tied together akin to the words of a diary, or the newly independent people of a nation. They make up the structure itself. A statue which cannot be reimbursed if a single mistake is done. A complex of elusiveness shaped by the abstract human mind. Does it remind you of something?

Chapter 1: Mahogany's Role, Part 5
"Through a Glass, Darkly"

       I DROVE MY WAY BACK TO THE HOUSE FOR A FAMILY DINNER. The weather, perfectly worsening day by day, hurried me up for a thunderstorm was coming. I heard as Zeus threw his branches on the ground, with a slight drizzle has reached enough distance to soak me. I jokingly purported that it was Jesus' way of signaling me that he was coming to ease my anxiety, calming me down so I could arrive home safely without no scratches. My mother, welcoming me at the front door, had prepared a commonplace ceremony, or what she liked to call it. It is just dinner of Chick-fil-A meals, but with a row of candles. Basically, it was exaggerated by the grand moniker it was given. Now, a little part of me suspects that the cult may have interpreted as the unusually bad weather to be a sign of the end.

       Having purchased and built an adjacent 4-part building past the childhood home I had dinner in, a dreary walk to the property was commonplace; my scribbled mine was occupied by far more problematic matters, as I forgot to install a shortcut door that would straightly lead to the side door. There were only few furniture I borrowed to brandish the place: an antique basket for newspapers, whose legacy bequeathed upon me, sitting in an unpainted corner of my living room; a modern phonograph bought for Jordan's teenage obsession of rap vinyl; and a decade old television with its LCD damaged on the top left. There is nothing particularly enticing of whatever reason I borrowed them, however. Spaces that are left from fixtures were simply perfect for their sizes—but not for the basket at least—it only serves as an artifact or a family heritage to say the least.

       I went to a home improvement store not too far away from the neighborhood; the Grenzeville community is not some kind of Macono (nor is it a forefront), though I admit the old school ways from the schools of this sparse county are still here. When I got home, taken aback for the sky's sprint towards darkness, there was little time to do all the renovations that night.

       Sweaty, I entered the home, prayed, and stayed.

       Still thunderous, I quickly moved all the things inside. They were all wet, but they would sure dry overnight like hanging clothes. Tools that are made up of steel hang droopy on the hazily installed pegboard, and rainwater caresses the handle. And then:

       A lightning strikes upon the window beside me. *(Bang!)* Then, silence.

       "Why didn't they wake up?" I pondered as the windows of my family's adjacent home still blanked.

       It was a dark cold night in February, as the shivers of the rain dispersed throughout. The rough static noise outside coincided with the dusty, sharp surface of the floorboards still blanketed with sawdust. It was but peaceful. I rushed upstairs to relax, where the furnishing juxtaposes the taciturn compartment of the first floor like a bittersweet flavor. Despite such, an oddly placed mirror and a live, laugh, love poster together — a forsaken, confidant couple — hangs beside the wall where the staircase ended.

       If the night had not terrified me yet with its terrific nature, there was something else that . A figure in the mirror — its look was not distinguishable from Mr. Hyde. No, no, it was not looking at me. I was looking at myself.

       Nullam laoreet diam vitae lectus interdum interdum. Fusce nibh elit, luctus sed consectetur a, ultricies nec tellus. Integer in sem condimentum, viverra augue et, euismod ligula. Sed id sapien ut magna pretium condimentum at a mi. Nulla fringilla nisl eget neque interdum, ut dictum sapien pharetra. Cras interdum ipsum eget suscipit laoreet. Nam tristique sapien luctus lacus ultrices imperdiet. Donec porta consequat nibh, sit amet semper neque tincidunt id. Praesent arcu dui, tincidunt vel arcu sit amet, mattis gravida diam. In euismod non elit malesuada congue.

       Proin quis consequat urna. Morbi ornare pulvinar magna. Maecenas sem orci, bibendum non elit vitae, volutpat sagittis magna. Cras iaculis diam luctus consectetur dictum. Morbi ullamcorper metus urna, a tempor purus pretium a. Praesent ut finibus lacus, eu ornare nisi. Duis sit amet mollis nunc, quis maximus risus.

       Vestibulum fermentum ut risus id vestibulum. Suspendisse finibus eros eu libero porttitor, eu scelerisque sem sodales. Sed placerat viverra ante, at posuere dolor. Ut lectus lorem, rutrum non condimentum vitae, rhoncus at diam. Nullam ut suscipit eros. Nam mattis sagittis augue in laoreet. Ut laoreet molestie lacus, vel feugiat diam. Aliquam eu diam at erat pretium tristique eget sed ipsum. Maecenas tincidunt luctus orci, sed condimentum justo imperdiet vel. Donec fermentum, nulla ac congue consectetur, ligula metus ultricies urna, ut aliquam tellus arcu ac sapien. In vulputate mattis mi eu sagittis. Class aptent taciti sociosqu ad litora torquent per conubia nostra, per inceptos himenaeos. Proin dictum congue augue vitae ornare. Morbi pharetra libero eu diam aliquam, suscipit congue ex eleifend. Donec eget tincidunt ipsum. Vestibulum ante ipsum primis in faucibus orci luctus et ultrices posuere cubilia curae;

       Phasellus eros eros, vehicula id bibendum vitae, accumsan in nisi. Donec quam nisi, suscipit in auctor in, feugiat vitae dolor. Donec orci libero, posuere sit amet molestie sit amet, mollis sit amet est. Pellentesque nec semper nunc, a efficitur libero. Praesent nec auctor metus, at rhoncus ex. Suspendisse potenti. Suspendisse a iaculis dui.

       *Drown, drown, drown, Carney, come on, (shee'goteyesblueskygivegotbrainhatelookyouseeeyes) the Lord and the Holy Trinity and Jesus Christ is waiting for you up to the heavens up in the clouds up in the North Carolinian skies where is your faith? you have been leasing your way through unfaithfulness you should now go away and leave Mother Nature. Doze off as fast as a koala on a tree wait why is the water stinging in my throat? (Gulpash! The waters still riprippling!) The painful the pain and the stinging I can't handle it where is the opioids? Is it there? Is it on the drawer? Is it China? Should I just poison myself with a mishmash of cleansing liquids? Poison in my bathroom? Wait, wait, wait, what was that? Sound? Notification? I have to get out, get out!*

       Nunc nec ipsum vel purus tincidunt tincidunt a at odio. Sed sit amet scelerisque urna. Curabitur suscipit, nisi in dictum rutrum, dolor erat faucibus magna, placerat facilisis neque leo non est. Donec ac ligula tellus. Pellentesque id dui semper, mollis elit id, scelerisque lorem. In nec congue magna. Ut est magna, laoreet nec dui nec, malesuada consequat lorem. Sed rutrum porttitor consectetur. Fusce in lacus sollicitudin, venenatis magna eu, fermentum nisi. Fusce eget pharetra dui, congue dictum dolor. Pellentesque habitant morbi tristique senectus et netus et malesuada fames ac turpis egestas. Integer ac est eget ipsum placerat ultricies at vel est. Aliquam ac ante ac orci suscipit interdum nec non turpis. Nullam gravida semper facilisis. In auctor neque quis urna egestas, vitae molestie eros cursus.

       In odio augue, eleifend vel eros ac, lobortis tincidunt odio. Praesent tempor porta ante sed aliquam. In et iaculis risus. Nullam condimentum augue ut erat convallis porttitor. Integer hendrerit euismod risus, sit amet convallis justo ornare nec. Integer vitae dui ligula. Suspendisse tortor purus, commodo id blandit a, rhoncus eu risus. Aliquam feugiat, massa nec scelerisque venenatis, lorem nisi ornare dolor, in congue metus quam ac arcu. Fusce lobortis lectus vel turpis viverra condimentum. Donec efficitur turpis rhoncus, dictum orci sit amet, dictum lectus. Integer eget tellus elit. Sed quis sagittis velit.

       Etiam venenatis commodo leo. Proin odio odio, placerat sit amet mattis eget, aliquet sed magna. Suspendisse rhoncus ornare mauris. Ut vitae mi at metus varius eleifend. Proin aliquet magna eget cursus maximus. Vestibulum tristique libero risus, et hendrerit nisi aliquet nec. In blandit accumsan urna, non pretium nulla luctus porta. Pellentesque volutpat quam vitae eros condimentum, quis porta elit sagittis. Morbi nec metus quam. Donec mi quam, semper ac nunc ut, tincidunt pulvinar lorem.

       Etiam a vulputate mauris. Interdum et malesuada fames ac ante ipsum primis in faucibus. Suspendisse potenti. Sed fermentum sollicitudin nibh et faucibus. Donec non nulla ac augue feugiat interdum vel non lacus. Aenean eu sodales massa, ac venenatis enim. Nam sem magna, congue at elit non, sollicitudin volutpat mi. Vivamus ornare augue sed semper ullamcorper. Nulla a molestie tortor.

       Vestibulum elit sapien, vulputate eget dui ac, rhoncus aliquet felis. Suspendisse varius ut elit ut gravida. Pellentesque accumsan, justo quis condimentum fringilla, mi eros bibendum leo, quis luctus lectus turpis a dolor. Pellentesque convallis ante at sollicitudin placerat. Vestibulum id turpis auctor, fringilla nunc non, interdum nisi. Maecenas ut facilisis urna, euismod malesuada nibh. Nullam nec volutpat lacus, quis ullamcorper ex. Donec vel condimentum felis. Aliquam luctus vulputate diam vitae bibendum. Aenean neque arcu, eleifend vitae pellentesque vel, semper at felis. Phasellus eu magna vehicula, viverra nisi at, fringilla nisi. Quisque arcu purus, bibendum non metus id, sagittis pretium magna. Cras semper accumsan dui, quis tempus mauris congue a. Vivamus aliquet sem vitae lorem mollis, id feugiat urna euismod. In facilisis pulvinar nisl, eu pretium sem elementum nec.

       Ut nunc mauris, hendrerit sit amet mauris non, sodales commodo mauris. Integer sed velit gravida, hendrerit quam consectetur, venenatis elit. Praesent nisi leo, egestas vitae viverra sit amet, eleifend vitae massa. Aenean aliquam vestibulum malesuada. Donec ut dolor nibh. Fusce sit amet nisl vitae massa convallis malesuada. Vivamus placerat sagittis erat et ornare. Vivamus eget aliquet enim, ac aliquam diam. Maecenas ut lacus quis leo convallis ornare sagittis volutpat lectus. Duis pretium, neque eget rhoncus finibus, massa enim sagittis velit, eu imperdiet arcu arcu ac lectus. Pellentesque et gravida lectus.

       Nunc elementum est sit amet semper volutpat. Nam venenatis viverra accumsan. Vestibulum sit amet massa id purus laoreet malesuada nec at mauris. Nullam fringilla dapibus commodo. Fusce feugiat aliquet molestie. Nulla consectetur vitae purus sed tempus. Praesent cursus hendrerit eros id faucibus. Ut vulputate leo eget nulla tempus, ut pretium leo bibendum. Nunc congue, est ut dapibus tristique, metus justo pharetra ex, quis volutpat urna diam sit amet eros. Praesent convallis erat ac sapien gravida consequat. Aliquam interdum purus mauris, fringilla volutpat massa laoreet in.

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CHAPTER 1: **THE NOVEL**

**Author and Wikitext-er:** **SherlsF**
**Co-author(Prologue and Rewriting for Chapter 3):** **NexnapThePhilosophist**
**Co-author(wrote like 5 paragraphs):** **NormalDudeWithaNormalLife**
* Background Image (Unsplash license), edited by the Main Author: "photo of brown wood slab" by Joel & Jasmin Førestbird.
* Images Contained in the Cover (Unsplash license), edited by the Main Author: "Butterfly in Winter" by Arpit Dhore and "Untitled Image" by Valeria Bukina.
* Image Contained in the credits section, edited by the Main Author: "Vintage Butterfly Illustration" posted by Julie J taken from a drawing of a butterfly in *Nearer my God to Thee*.
* Butterfly Logo (CC BY 2.0), edited by the Main Author: "Wings Butterfly Insect Antenna" by an unknown author.
* House Image (CC0/Public Domain), edited by the Main Author: "Orange Factory Village, Dawson House, Old Orange Factory Road (State Route 1628), Durham, Durham County, NC" posted by an unknown author from the Library of Congress.
* New York City Skyline Image (CC BY-SA 2.0), edited by the Main Author: "ScanImage60317021" by fsse8info.

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Pages from the Canon in Chronological Order

Main Page: "Winter's Butterfly"

**Introduction: "February 12th 2015"**

**Section 1**

**Chapter 1: Mahogany's Role**

Chapter 2: To Wreak a Cosmo

Chapter 3: Stains on the Vinyl

**Section 2**

Chapter 4: The Exhibition

Chapter 5: It Falls Like a Domino

Recommended Pages Made by the Author