My book, “Dance of the Butterfly”, will be published soon. It will be the first in a series. The second has already been written, and I am now working on the third. I am not even sure of the title yet, but I am thinking of “Spirit of the Butterfly” or “Soul of the Butterfly”. I have the basic points lined out, and I am in the midst of more specific brainstorming and research. Very little has yet been written, but I would like to share a snippet of my current work in progress, so here we go –
They both move toward the area, dirt and dead leaves crunching under their boots. One side of the small building bears a large opening from the fire, and Lilja uses this rather than moving about to what is left of the door. Once inside, Lilja sees the remnants of pews, the wood looking to have been of very good quality- dark, highly polished, cushioning now dotted with mold and tears. She produces her small flashlight, turning it on to better see, for though a portion of the roof is even gone, the angle of the setting sun does not offer much illumination. She halts the scan rather quickly, noticing a drawing on the wall.
“Hey, I found something outsi-,” Zoe begins, coming into the room, but her voice stops as she peers at what is captured in the focus of Lilja’s torch, “What’s that supposed to be?” Zoe speaks, getting up a bit closer, then stopping to study the markings.
“I don’t know,” Lilja admits, also staring.
The work is crude, looking like graffiti, the broad swathes of paint seeming as though done by a child, thick with a charcoal-like texture. The form is obviously that of a bound woman, though the head metamorphoses into what seems a deer, crowned with an impressive display of crooked antlers.
“It looks primitive,” Zoe remarks, “like it’s been here forever,” and she bends a bit at the knee, getting closer, bringing one hand up to gently wipe at it, giving way to a brief fall of almost gossamer dust.
She then steps back, fishing out her mobile, holding it up to take a few quick snapshots. Once done, she glances at the device, eyes narrowing a bit, muttering, “Reception is poor out here.”
“Do you think it has anything to do with what’s been going on here?” the redhead asks, still focused on the strange artwork.
Dance of the Butterfly 