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Imi was born and raised in Europe, Hungary. After finishing his school years, he moved to Canada to search for a better life. He lived in Toronto for 13 years and currently resides in Vancouver. He is a romantic at heart with a strong desire to always do the right thing. He would like to give hope to the Chinese and Asian ladies with his story and send a message that love eventually finds everybody.
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While The Orchids Sleep, The Butterfly Emerges From Its Chrysalis (Part 2)

By Imi
783 Views | 18 Comments | 5/15/2017 2:45:56 PM

On the balcony, the woman was busy trying to find a place for the orchids. Her vegetables and herbs were in plastic containers in sizes of rather on the large side, leaving not much room for anything else on the floor. So, for the time being, the woman decided to set the orchids on the concrete guard rail, thinking to hang them from a nail tomorrow when there was daylight.

 

Before going inside, the woman gazed up at the moonless sky and tried to gauge the possibility of an overnight storm. She wouldn't have liked the orchids toppling over and being found on the street by the morning, six floors below. While trying to make a decision, she thought about what the florist had said to her earlier: “There are twenty-eight thousand species of orchids in the world. The scientific name for the particular species you're looking at is Calypso bulbosa or most commonly, fairy slipper or Venus's slipper.”

 

The woman liked that name: Venus's slipper. Venus and Roman mythology were things that she hadn't known a lot about, though. She could retrieve only small remnants of her study about that era from the back of her head. She knew that in Roman mythology, Venus was a goddess, the Roman counterpart of the Greeks' Aphrodite. Venus's functions encompassed love, beauty, desire, and sexuality. The woman pulled her gaze away from the sky and examined the orchids in detail. They indeed look like slippers, she wondered, with their white lips and darker purple spotting. Yes, definitely, slippers of divine beings. Tilting her head from side to side, she studied the orchids for a while like a picture in a museum, and then, having no more qualm about the weather, she spun around and went inside.

 

Straight to the bathroom, the woman went from the balcony. Once in there, she got rid of all her clothes and inspected her nude reflection in a full-length mirror. She was young, only twenty-four, and still lithe. She had no children, so no left-over fat from childbirth ruined her shape yet. Her body still looked like when she was eighteen years old. While she was generous in all the right places, she stayed slim everywhere else. She wasn't tall, only well-proportioned. In the mirror, her dark patch of pubic hair, surrounded by her flawless, milky skin, looked like an oasis in the endless dunes of white sands—an oasis for palliating overheated fantasies. Watching her movements closely in the mirror, the woman traced her hips with her palms sliding down from her waist all the way to her thighs. She seemed to be satisfied with what she saw because she gave a little smile to her reflection. Love, beauty, desire, sexualityshe repeated Venus's functions in her head.

 

From one moment to the other, however, the grin on the woman's face began to tremble like a dry leaf in the autumn breeze and then completely faded away, closing up into a thin line. Her eyes narrowed, the woman turned sideways and carefully examined the greenish-purple bruise in the mirror, just right above her right shoulder bone. It seems to be on the mend, she wondered. She reached back with her left hand and gently tapped on the bruise with her index finger. She grimaced. It still hurt and was tender to the touch.

 

“Dutiful, industrious, compliant,” she said to her reflection with the same blank stare from earlier on the street and then turned around and stepped into the shower.

 

After taking a long shower, the woman went to the kitchen and sat at the dinner table. On the stove, in pots, the dinner was ready to be served. On the dinner table, two sets of plate and silverware lay, neatly arranged. She didn't touch anything, only watched the kind of still life in the kitchen, quietly waiting for her husband to come home. When the hands of the clock signaled the end of the old day and the beginning of a new one, the woman waited no more. She left the table and went to the bedroom, her stomach, instead of food, full of surging anxiety. First, she thought she wouldn't be able to sleep, but soon, a hefty darkness claimed her state of mind, and she fell asleep, quickly sliding all the way down into a vivid dream.

 

She was in a very tight place, in pitch-black dark. She couldn't see or hear anything and felt as if the world had not, in the true sense of the word, existed around her. She just hung in an immense blackness without being able to move at all. Be that as it may, the woman felt all kind of movements within her, though. There was a kind of microcosm happening inside her as though the entire world that had disappeared, in some odd way, had been squeezed in her tiny body. She felt the agony of giving birth and, at the same time, the calmness of passing away. Devastation. And then rebuilding. Emotions arose on a grand scale like high tides, and then they receded far out from the shoreline of her understanding. Before long, however, they all came back again, reconstructed, recreated as brand-new feelings. She felt as if her whole being had been reanimated from the inside out.

 

The entire process happened rapidly, without taking a break. This new creation inside her began to overgrow its limit, invading the black void around her like the roots of a sapling searching the soil underground for ways of living. Clods of blackness were pushed around, squeezed, and crushed until, lastly, the blackness got torn apart. The woman was freed and could finally move, and not just move but actually fly. She was reborn as a butterfly in her hometown.

 

From the air, she saw neatly cultivated vegetable gardens, people she knew, family members, acquaintances, and used-to-be friends. At her old school, children were playing and laughing in the schoolyard. They saw her fly by and pursued her, trying to net her. Leaving the town behind, in the countryside now, she saw green forests turning ablaze with the season change, fields of wildflowers stretching as far as the horizon meets the sky, and blue and green lakes of any shape and size glistening in the sunshine. She was joyful like never before. The sense of freedom lifted her even higher in the sky, over the endless landscape, and she just flew and glided with the wind as far as she could see.

 

Sadly, her freedom was short-lived. When she had taken a break in the middle of a clearing, a boy caught her with a butterfly net and put her in a glass jar. Looking through the thick glass, as the kid walked his way home, the entire world seemed to be warped all around her. Everything that was dear to her heart, all of a sudden, had been bent and distorted—the fields, the forests, and lakes, she had just flown over. The people and the children in her hometown, too, whom she had just seen, all were contorted to such extent that they looked rather like monsters than human beings, and the surrounding countryside appeared to be a wasteland, stripped of colors, bereft of life.

 

In the jar, there she was, all beautiful and vivified but with no chance to fly. Even if she had been free, where could she have flown in all that flotsam and jetsam, all that obliteration? After all that change inside her, the world and everything in it weren't what she had imagined they should have been.

 

Suddenly, the boy came to a halt, lifted the jar to his eyes, and looked inside, his face twisting close to the jar into a mass of wickedness with huge leering eyes. The boy removed the lid, reached inside, and pulled her out. He then pinched her wings and stretched them apart as far as he could, apparently trying to rip them off. The only thing she could do was to close her eyes and scream as the pain stretched with her wings to somewhere far beyond her imagination. When the pain ultimately claimed her entire body, she opened her eyes and saw, to her surprise, not the boy but her husband yanking her out of bed by her arms, his face distorted in a drunken rage.

 

The woman was confused at first, but soon, she came to her true senses. Butterfly, she was no more. She was only getting torn by her ugly reality.

 

Copyright owned jointly by Author and CyberCupid Co., Ltd. Breach of copyright will be prosecuted.
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(Showing 1 to 10 of 18) 1 2 More...
#2017-05-15 14:46:43 by JohnAbbot @JohnAbbot

Hmmm...  Things have taken a dramatic, unexpected shift. Although perhaps I should have expected it, I didn't. 

I was enjoying a pleasant happiness for this woman, expecting her to become strong willed and independent, and thereby convert her domineering husband into a loving and sharing equal partner when he saw how attractive those traits were in her.

Of course, that was naive of me. Both to think that life was so simple, and even moreso, to assume that you would be that simple.

So now, you have taken me from an interested observer, watching this woman from afar and hoping for her to win her man's love and her parents' approval by being the opposite of what they expected, and in doing so turning them all into one big happy, loving family. And instead you have me suddenly in the same room with her, wanting to shield her from the slimy drunken bastard who drunkenly abuses her.  Prepared, if necessary, to wreak violence upon him in order to protect this suffering maiden. Suddenly I am awash with anger. 

Clever trick, Imi, great writing! Cheers. (beer)(beer)(beer)

#2017-05-15 21:01:13 by Barry1 @Barry1

What a wonderful, rich story-telling ability you have, Imi. 

 

What a great imagination, drawing the reader ever onward into the colourful chasms of your mind where anything is possible and everything in fact is probable.

 

Bravo, I say!   (clap)(y)

#2017-05-15 21:19:18 by paulfox1 @paulfox1

@Imi

We've shared our differences and I am aware that you probably know that I haven't  responded to your blogs lately - however, I always read them....

Your writing style is becoming more proficient with every blog you write, and this one is so poetic that it touched me.....

Drunken or not, ANY man who lays an angry finger on a woman - not matter how much he feels 'provoked' - is a coward, scum-of-the-Earth, the lowest-of-the-low, and deserves to receive much more than he 'gives'.

All women, even complete 'bitches,' (in the eye of their beholder), should NEVER, EVER be subjected to physical violence from ANY man.....!

 

Good blog, my friend. Well written!

#2017-05-16 22:51:03 by anonymous16064 @anonymous16064

 I agree no man should ever impart physical violence on any woman except when defending themselves/lives from physical attacks from women, no woman should ever cause physical violence on any man except when defending themselves/lives from men.....period. 

#2017-05-17 04:17:02 by Imi5922 @Imi5922

John

Barry

Paul

Thank you all for your comments. I really felt this blog was going to be too dark for CLM, and to be fair, I still do. However, John's right, once I've started it, I ought to finish it.

 

There is no perfect writing, but sometimes, I wish I could have the intelligence and vocabulary that you guys have because I can see the shortcomings of this article and all my stories that have been written recently, but I can't make them better. Not even Grammarly can make you a better writer. My level of writing will never be like yours. However, I'll try to improve every day. 

#2017-05-17 14:49:44 by melcyan @melcyan

 

Imi, I love watching your writing skills evolve. I can see that you are a lifelong learner of writing skills. You put a lot work into your writing, you constantly refine it and you love what you do. Your English word knowledge and usage will probably never be “native”. However, the rapid way that you are improving suggests that you will eventually reach the point where most readers will think that English is your first language.

 

You have the ability to project yourself into many different situations and view events through many different lenses. That is a much more important skill for a writer than perfect mastery of the English language. You have a wider view of reality because you can read and write in more than one language and you can fully relate to more than one culture. Don’t ever talk yourself down as a writer. There is only one Imi. Your hard won final pieces of writing will always get my attention.

 

 

#2017-05-17 16:19:58 by Barry1 @Barry1


@JohnAbbot

@paulfox1

 

"you have me suddenly in the same room with her, wanting to shield her from the slimy drunken bastard who drunkenly abuses her.  Prepared, if necessary, to wreak violence upon him in order to protect this suffering maiden. Suddenly I am awash with anger."

 

Whoa there, John and Paul.

 

Steady down.

 

Imi is writing a nicely written  FICTIONAL story here.  It's based upon Imi's fertile imagination.  Good on you. Imi, well done!

 

I don't understand how you other guys though can be "awash with anger" or referring to "coward, scum-of-the-Earth," people?

 

Let me repeat.  Imi is writing a piece of fiction here.  Why become so carried away?  

 

Do you guys become emotional wrecks when reading an Agatha Christie novel, when a victim is cruelly murdered?  Or does a cruel murder not rate as highly in your views as a husband abusing his wife  -  a wife who as Imi aptly describes, chooses to stay at home, not feeling in such danger that she should flee to safer situation?

 

We all know men shouldn't hit women, that's a given.  We're adults here, right? We all know also what's reality and what's not reality.  What's made up and what's not.

 

 Don't we?    :^)

#2017-05-18 12:01:18 by paulfox1 @paulfox1


@Barry1

'We all know men shouldn't hit women, that's a given'

Do 'we'? Try telloing that to all the drunken bastards that actually DO this!

I am fully aware of the context in which Imi wrote it, however, this ISN'T an Agatha Christie novel, is it? I was simply making a point for clarity!

#2017-05-18 13:14:17 by melcyan @melcyan

@Barry1

 

Barry, I don’t believe that Imi’s writing is complete fiction. When I started reading Imi’s story, I knew what was coming. It reminded me of my mother. I imagined the emotional and physical pain that she had to endure from my father.

 

The picture Imi paints with his words brought back some memories for me but most of all I had to imagine my mother's pain because she always tried to keep it hidden from her children. I think Imi’s childhood background is similar to mine. While the main character of his story is fictional, the mental and physical abuse is real.

 

Unfortunately, for some of our female CLM readers, Imi’s words are far too real.

#2017-05-18 13:46:25 by JohnAbbot @JohnAbbot

Barry, I have to say that what makes great fiction great, is the reality of it. Great fiction reminds us of real events that we have participated in, and it causes us to feel the same feelings at the time we were experiencing those events. It doesn't have to be an identical series of events, but if expressed well, and in a way that feels real to us, it still will cause us to feel those incredibly strong, and in this case, painful, feelings we had experienced in our past.

In other instances great fiction will cause us to feel our rush of first love, our pride in our good deeds, our shame in our bad acts, and countless other strong emotions we have experienced. I think when you walk out of a movie thinking what a great movie it was, it can only be because it caused you to feel once again, strong feelings you had felt in your past.

So Paul and I feeling such strong anger towards the man who was causing so much pain for the woman in Imi's story is a compliment to Imi for having written a great fiction. That's how I see it in any event.

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