The Monarch By Mark Brent

Note: this is the first story I published. It was in a yearly anthology put out by my college. I won an award for the best student short story for it my senior year.

The Army Jumpmaster's howl initiates the jump sequence, but I'm not at the jump. “Not present, soldier!” Instead, I have drifted into a familiar dream.

I'm back in Ms. Washington's classroom, again. Marvin with his bulbous head is also in attendance. Laura Ann is there with her glint ridden, metallic smile. All six feet of me are stuck, crammed into this grammar school desk. My knees are tender from slamming into it every time I get an itch.

Everyone looks at me. I’m uncomfortable.

I had to dress in Army camouflage; you see, it's best that Ms. Washington doesn't call on me. I won't know the answer and this will make her angry. Ms. Washington flicks rapidly through her nature slides. She stops, and says something about a caterpillar. I can't hear her, but she's going on about this caterpillar. Why can't she ever discuss the lion or the tiger? Finally, her lesson dries up, and as time strolls away from the two dimensional world of the slide-screen, the lights begin to darken. Marvin's head flattens and disappears. The slide show becomes a movie. I reach inside of my camouflage fatigues and pull out a bag of popcorn.

The movie sputters from frame to frame. I see a succulent leaf and a plump and fleshy caterpillar. The caterpillar anxiously spins a saliva rope from its spinneret. Every lesson Ms. Washington calls it a spinneret- -you'd think she'd become tired of that word. The caterpillar fastens a rope to the waxy surface of the leaf, then the worm creature slips over the edge of the leaf. Zip, to the leaf below! A metallic blue dragonfly invades the film and for a moment my attention turns from the caterpillar to the predator. I follow it; the film's creation tests the projected boundaries of the picture on the white wall. The dragonfly flies to the top of the screen. There it flattens out its wings into a glide, it banks, then dives off the screen. “Private Ottarson .” Ms. Washington is calling my name. She's seen me. She's going to ask if I've paid attention. I keep real still. I hope that she'll doubt herself against the camouflage of my fatigues. 

“Observe the tiger-stripe on the caterpillar.” Damn, she's locked on to me. I have to wake up. All I can see is tiger-stripes, and the plump and fleshy. I'm out of popcorn. Wake up! Wake up!

The dragonfly comes back on screen and starts to encircle the leaf that holds the caterpillar. “Look,” I yell, “The dragonfly is looking for a meal.” Ms. Washington continues to question me.

“Private Ottarson, when ingrained instinct and chance timing fail to keep the caterpillar away from its predators, what can it rely on?” I don't know the answer. I'm sure the caterpillar will find the answer. Everyone looks at me, all six feet of me stuffed into this desk. They laugh at my stupidity.

Laura Ann raises her hand.

“Private Ottarson, it's been more than a decade.” Ms. Washington has a way of stating the obvious. She's right. I can't escape grade school. She calls on Laura Ann. “With luck, Ms. Washington, the caterpillar will survive all predators, like birds, and humans, to make it to the cocoon stage. There it will go through a lengthy maturing process, much like a living death. Once complete, the caterpillar will emerge as a beautiful butterfly.” Laura Ann cracks a smile; I hate that glint-ridden mouth. My face turns red. 

In the midst of my frustration, I catch the scent of smoke, my mouth fills with the taste of coffee grounds. My body reminds me that I've outgrown grammar school – it craves its own cocoon.

Ms. Washington never liked me, and the feeling was mutual. However, I did appreciate her odd nature lessons, despite our differences. The problem lay with her unwavering insistence on talking about the caterpillar.

“Stand up.”

The Jumpmaster’s voice interrupts my trance. Again, I don't respond to his voice. I'm still in Ms. Washington's nature lesson. The memory of my confinement in that grammar school desk, the laughter of my peers echoing in my mind. The Jumpmaster commands some other jumpers to shake me into awareness. I oblige and open my eyes. I am confronted by their angry camouflaged faces and decide it's best to stand. Gravity pulls my first effort back towards the floor of the aircraft. I try again and the same happens. I try a third time to stand. The Jumpmaster's howling and the red jump light points the way for me and I stand as strong as I can and face the aircraft's tail.

“Hook up! Check equipment! Sound off for equipment check!”

“OK” echoes down the line of paratroopers as we acknowledge our gear's readiness. It starts with the first jumper at the front of the C-130 and each jumper in turn spanks the one in front of him shouting 'OK! The last jumper delivers a straight-hand sign to the Jumpmaster. 'All's OK, Jumpmaster!' Always a step ahead, the Jumpmaster opens the jump door without waiting for the final signal from Pawlowski. The door pops open, and a rush of air breaks the aircraft's vacuum, drowning out the paratroopers' anticipation. In front of me Olsen checks his pulse.

“Stand by!”

Pawlowski stands by the door. We wait. Only Pawlowski and the Jumpmaster can see into the night. The Jumpmaster must wait until he sees the blinking beacon below on the approaching dropzone before he sends us out into the night beyond the safety of aircraft.

“Green light, go!”

Polowski, Murphy, White, and Olsen are gone. The Jumpmaster’s eyes lock onto mine, and he commands me to exit the aircraft. He yells for me to exit his aircraft. I take a step forward and gravity sucks me from the warm belly of the 'bird' and delivers me into the autumn night. The laborious roar of the aircraft is left ringing in my ear and in the absolute darkness my affection for warmth is met by bitter cold. In a fetal position I fall, I dream of cold--it's bitter black. I spin away from the warmth of the red light. I spin into a familiar dream.

I'm flying around my bedroom, again. I gracefully flap my arms and they become wings, butterfly wings. I'm a Monarch butterfly playing touch and going around my room, extracting nectar from the lines of flowers on the wallpaper. It's the sixth grade and I'm back in class. I'm flying and I wing-dance above my classmates and imagine the teacher pointing out all of my beautiful colors. My classmates applaud as Ms. Washington puts a sad-face on my homework. She argues that dragonflies can't eat caterpillars. I argue that I believe they can. When she turns her back I rotate my homework and try to make her sad-face smile.

The middle school lunch room is cool, white and cool, I see Marvin coming for me. I start my flapping. I rise up and away. Marvin climbs a table in pursuit as I flap just out of his reach. The higher this Goliath, this King Kong climbs, the higher I flap. All the children are in good humor and I flap easily about on the warm air created by their laughter. Marvin throws cafeteria Jell-O at me for fun. I dart in and out of his oversized arms as he wildly swings at me. The whole moment is fed by laughter and a few other boys join in and start throwing flak from their food trays. Laughter, the flak, Jell-o and peas, exploding around me then Marvin yells, 'I'm going to kill you, Nick Ottarson! Cross my heart and hope to die, I'm going to kill You!'

I'm back in my race car bed and the whole world is present to watch my Indy victory. I lay my head back onto the pillow, Start the engine, and listen to the roar of the crowd. I smell fuel, asphalt, an intoxicating smell of urine fills the room. I've wet my bed. The windows blow open and a cold breeze paralyzes the Monarch. I'm so cold.

As I separate from the aircraft, the Jumpmaster's instructions become a beacon of order in the impending chaos. Thousands of feet above the ground. The deafening roar of wind, the disorienting rush of cold air, and the frantic blur of fellow paratroopers create a storm, a sensory overload.

“Check body position and count!”

“One one-thousand!” I begin the count to four one-thousand and tuck my chin tighter into my chest. The weight of the coverall helmet pushes my lips into the St. Michael's medallion hanging around my neck. Í kiss it and say a quick prayer. 'Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep.’ My fingers spread and grasp the sides of the reserve parachute. I tuck my elbows aerodynamically into my sides and press my feet and knees together. The tighter the body position the less I will spin. I continue to fall away from the aircraft toward the ground. 

“Two one-thousand!” I get my eyes open and struggle to look out into the night. A touch of illumination from the frosty moon highlights my descent. My ears are laughing and the moon smiles knowingly on my figure as I hurl towards earth. My toes point towards earth, then my head, then my toes again. My back always remains pointed to heaven. I lose sight of the aircraft's moon-lit shadow on the drop zone.

“Three one-thousand!” Elastic bands, each with a distinctive lesson, snap one after the other. They release the caution-yellow static line that is my umbilical cord to the aircraft. With a final tug the static line releases the pack assembly and my main parachute springs forth from its dormant state. The parachute trails along behind me like a deflated balloon waiting for air. The aircraft's shadow disappears across the drop zone into the woods at the far end, leaving me alone with the other jumpers.

“Four one-thousand!” I catch a thermal rising through the night from the sun-hot clay below. The breath of warm air gives the ashen silk of my parachute life and with a sudden jolt the 'chute fills with air and jerks my legs around to standing. My chin comes off my chest and I face forward. I hang weightless under the parachute.

“Check canopy!”

The distant curve of the horizon defines itself as my descent slows down under full canopy. I'm able to focus on the jump. Looking hard to the still sunlit horizon I see an abundance of autumn's reds, oranges, and yellows. The trees are burning. The sun has just slipped beyond the trees and its glow is inviting me to follow . I feel the need to be in the sun's reassuring rays.

I commence flapping my butterfly wings.

“Cherry, check your canopy!”

“Check can of peas!” I mock the Jumpmaster’s voice still sounding off in my mind.

Moonlight streams through the apex in my 'chute, and with its sardonic glow, I conduct a thorough three-hundred-and-sixty-degree inspection of my canopy. No rips or tears, no missing panels. Safely ensconced a thousand feet above the ground under my sound canopy, I find solace as the chaos below begins to subside.

In this aerial therapy, I slip into a familiar dream. It's the Wilbur High School gymnasium – my graduation day. The entire town assembles to witness this pivotal moment. My father, a diligent laborer, occupies a seat beside his new girlfriend, anxious to prevent my mother from creating a scene. She, a seasoned professional, sits with her husband and his daughter Ann – a girl whose crow-like eyes have always irked me, even though I can't pinpoint why. The students have been seated by class rank, and alphabetically in the case of ties.

Laura Ann, divine in her beauty, delivers her valedictorian speech, a mesmerizing last hurrah. I, basking in her presence, decide to take flight around the podium, taking lift from the radiance that emanates from her. Laura Ann occupies the pinnacle spot in our class, ranked number one. I, on the other hand, languish in the forty-ninth spot, while Marvin, ranked last at fiftieth, remains in the shadows.

An Army recruiter had told Marvin and me to become paratroopers, to embark on a journey where we could earn while learning for college. Yet, I've never truly contemplated the prospect of college; all I yearn for is to take flight, to hear Laura Ann speak to my heart once more.

"Gain canopy control!" The command resonates in my mind as I find myself in the Captain's office, basking in his praises for my aerial prowess. He demands a demonstration, and without hesitation, I take to my wings, flapping gracefully in mid-air. I land on the ceiling of his office, and he admires the vibrant hues of my wings, pointing out the splendor of my colors. An invitation to his home follows, a chance for his wife, renowned for her butterfly collection, to witness my beauty. How could I possibly decline?

"Prepare to land!"

As I brace for the final impact, a sudden intrusion disrupts my reverie. "Get out of my way!" It's Marvin, also under his canopy, hurling invectives and threats. In the midst of this chaotic confrontation, I realize the need for swift action. Marvin's parachute oscillates perilously into my jump space, and a last-minute recollection of my training guides my response.

In a desperate attempt to avert disaster, I spread eagle in a bid to bounce away from Marvin's suspension lines. However, the capricious wind transforms my outstretched form into a weathervane, spinning me uncontrollably. Instead of bouncing away, I slip between two of the suspension lines, and in a surreal twist of fate, my canopy slides over and collapses on top of Marvin's parachute.

I find myself trapped upside down within the confines of his 'chute, the suspension lines, akin to a web, anchoring me in this curious, circular prison. I struggle to recollect the wisdom imparted by the Jumpmaster, but in the heat of the moment, I've forgotten it all.

"Get out of my fucking 'chute!' 'It's not like I want to be here,” That's what I tell him, it's not like I want to be here. As fast as I enter, I fall out. But the damage is done. I fall down past Marvin with my limp 'chute trailing humbly along behind me. I picked up speed as I plummet downward without a full canopy.

Back at the Captain's house, he introduces me to his wife – Laura Ann. Her name strikes a chord of familiarity, and I can't help but smile. I inform her of my affinity for flight, even though she likely knows it already. Laura Ann listens attentively, and the Captain grins. She proceeds to reveal her collection of butterflies.

"Nick, we need good paratroopers to stay in the Army," the Captain asserts.

"Am I a good paratrooper, sir?" I inquire.

"Nick, we have a war developing, and we need all the able bodies we can muster."

Laura Ann's smile hints at her appreciation for my colors, and the Captain awaits my response. As I ponder the boys and girls deployed around the world, and the impact of war  movies on my impressionable mind, I meet Laura Ann's gaze directly. "Sir, I terminate service in twenty-eight days," I explain, my voice tinged with doubt. "Twenty-eight days. I don't see how I can be of any help." I lower my gaze to my boots, and Laura Ann acknowledges my point with a nod.

"That is why I brought you here today, to ask you to reenlist," the Captain announces. "What do you say? There would be a healthy bonus in it for you. We could even make you a sergeant. How does Sergeant Ottarson grab you?"

"Why don't you ask your wife, sir? I think she knows my answer." 

The Captain snorts, a bemused expression on his face. "My wife? What does she have to do with anything?"

"Like you don't know she knows butterflies. I mean, why else have you brought me here to your house?"

"Butterflies? What about butterflies?" the Captain inquires, clearly annoyed by the mere mention of butterflies.

Laura Ann, with a knowing smile, nods at her husband. The Captain and I exchange curious glances, waiting for her to shed light on the matter. The Captain's gaze shifts to me, and I return it with an air of resignation. As we linger in this peculiar moment, my vibrant colors gradually fade away. It becomes increasingly challenging to cling to the ceiling, and I eventually descend back to my seat. The descent, albeit gradual, is enough to strip me of my colorful wings, and I begin to resemble a paratrooper once more. The die is cast—I can't reenlist. College beckons, and I flap my wings, initiating flight around Laura Ann's elegant head. She giggles, her smile radiating through me.

"College?" the Captain questions with a hint of curiosity as he approaches me.

"I want to shag butterflies," Laura Ann declares, rising and reaching for her net. It dawns on me that this woman is not my Laura Ann, not the valedictorian of Wilbur High. Regrettably, that valedictorian was unacquainted with the world of butterflies—a sad reality really.

"Land!" It's a solemn promise. I continue my fateful descent, passing by Marvin and three other jumpers. Each paratrooper makes his own attempt to signal the impending ground. I continue to fall. There is nothing to be done. I shed all excess equipment, and a silent chuckle escapes me as I envision the shaving cream and shampoo in my rucksack exploding upon impact. I can't help but laugh. I know the accident inspector will meticulously measure the splat radius of my shaving cream to calculate the duration of my free fall.

Upon impact, I give it my all to merge with God's green earth. As they say, "It's not the impact that'll kill you; it's the bounce." And there it is, the earth, seemingly colorless and odorless. Reenlistment is no longer an option—I simply can't fathom it. How could I, knowing that my maker promised I come from dust and shall return to dust?

In this profound moment, I think of Ms. Washington's caterpillar, the Monarch butterfly, and the cycle of returning to dust. As I brace for what's to come, I take flight.