Two novels. 1) ConCept 2)[Name Classified]
an excerpt

ConCept Excerpt 2:

There she sits, a woman, a beautiful woman beneath a tree on a hill. Beneath the tree and above the woman, flutters a countless array of butterflies ranging in all colors across the spectrum. Many leafs of the tree are gone, but are replaced with butterflies sitting gracefully upon the branches. The woman that sits wears a beautiful white and green cambric sundress specked with tiny silhouette of leafs along the green trims of the dress. Her bare head leans back against the smooth trunk, her long mane of ceramic white hair acts as a pillow. Her long hair cascades over her shoulders, flows over her bosom, and spills into her lap. Her hands cross over one another as they rest upon her lap. Her fingernails bear a very sheen carmine polish, reflecting the image of butterflies above. Her legs stretch out forward, crossed over one another. Upon her standing, one would be able to see two deep grooves in the grassy earth created in the process of her stretching out her legs. However, as of now she rest, eyes laden in peaceful sleep.
Sporadic rays of the afternoon sun, filter thorough the branches, softly kissing her delicate fair face. She rests with a smile playing across her carmine lips. She slowly opens her eyes, as she does, the wind stirs violently and blows downhill before her. As her eyes leisurely open, the winds become stronger and more violent. Finally her eyes are fully widened; her piercing emerald green irises gaze into the world. Seeing the shadow of the tree, the lush grass of the hill waving in the wind, the dirt road below to the village away before her, the sierra in the distance, and the blue sky as the background of it all. The wind continues to blow relentlessly, the butterflies struggle to stay in the environs of the tree, and however, it proves too difficult for some. The woman is oblivious to the wind, and all feeling. Though the winds play and dance in and with her hair, caressing her skin in the breeze, and as the sun kisses the face; it is futile. She truly feels none of it. Her eyes continue to gaze at the world that is vivid in color as her eyes. But in the center of her eyes, as the center of the world, is void of life. Her eyes began to turn glassy. She quickly blinks once in response, and as this occurs the winds die instantaneously. They stop as if the wind god himself was beheaded.
The butterflies that can, return to the tree and flutter freely. She gazes up at them with a smile. She watches as small clouds pass near the sun, but never coming between her and the sun. She continues to watch them as she playfully, yet slowly, flexes her feet. In her walk, her feet became quite muddy, however, during her siesta, the mud cake to her feet. Now hardened, the mud chips away little by little as she wrinkles her soft soles. Beneath the mud and stained against her soles is blood, not her blood, but the blood of others, many others. She continues to watch the butterflies. She sighs and then speaks in a soft voice, as she watches the butterflies.
“Humans are like butterflies,” she starts watch as one flutters by her face.
“At first, they start off as a caterpillar. Slowly squirming through life, struggling, and focusing on survival now. Then they go into their cocoon. Many times, humans never realize this stage of life in which they enter their cocoon, therefore they remain a caterpillar, and that’s how they die, a caterpillar. Never becoming anything more, and never realizing their true self. Some caterpillars will enter this cocoon, for humans, this is soul seeking, finding our purpose of existence in this world, why they deserve to belong. Even out of this small number, only part of them will find theirs. Their reason of existence in this world, and what they may do, and then will they bloom into beautiful butterflies. But for the ones that didn’t, they die. This death is not a physical death, but an internal one. They are dead on the inside, never accomplishing anything in life, incomplete; therefore as essentially useless as the dead. They stay within their cocoon of nirvana never coming out to witness their true potential. Like a caterpillar, that’s how they die, as a cocoon.” And once again something fell upon her. A cocoon, however, it was coming out into a butterfly. She sits it to the side to allow it to come out on its own.
“As the butterfly from within emerges, interference of another most not occurs in the transpiring event. If one interferes, then they limit the potential of that butterfly, greatly crippling it to a point that it never realizes its ultimate point of existence. Although one may have helped with good intentions, they have reduced the purpose of this butterfly now.” She watched the butterfly continue to struggle, never moving a muscle to aid it.
“DO you become a butterfly? Or will you die because you only TRY to become a butterfly?” About ten minutes after these ascended, the butterfly emerges from the cocoon, triumphantly it flaps its colorful wings as it flutters to the heavens.
“However, even for the butterflies that have bloomed and spread their latent wings of worthiness in the world, have many challenges ahead. Death can come at any moment, be it nature, humans, or thyself. The same is true for humans; death can be realized before they have acquired a feeling of complete existence in the world. However, this is good. It is good for it eliminates the excess potentials of the world and reducing the damage done in the process.” She holds her left hand out with an open palm beaconing to the butterflies. They come, about a dozen or so butter flies land with in her palm.
“For every deed is a consequence. However, the consequences of human deeds have taxed the world beyond restoration, therefore, they must end. By my hands, Nature’s Hands’.” And with a smile, she clenches her palm tightly upon the butterflies, crushing them. Wings protrude from between her fingers, trembling and fidgeting in pain, but her smile remains. She tightens her merciless grip until the fidgeting wings stiffen in death, and a green liquid ferments from between her fingers, with a tilt she smirk bearing her teeth at the sight of murder. She feels a minute squirm from her palm; there is still one barely alive suffering at the mercy of the woman.
“I see. Only one left to enjoy my death I have granted you all? Shall I end it for you now, or should I allow you to live to display how grateful you are to me in suffering?” She asked the surviving creature as she opens her gore stained hand, revealing crushed wings, broken antennas, and busted bodies. She locates the surviving butterfly; it weakly waves its antennae at her as if it is begging. Her wicked smirk ebbs into a soft smile.
“You’re welcome.” She said sotto voce. She slowly closed her hand on the trembling butterfly, enclosing it in her palm painted with previously crushed butterflies. She clenches her hand so hard that that body burst with enough force to squirt some of the body fluids out the side of her palm. She watches it drip from her palm to the grass, then she looks up. The butterflies stopped, they landed upon the branches and trunk, watching her. Even the clouds stop moving. The only sound was from the festival in the village down below. She continued to smile up at them all. She stands up at this point now. The grooves can now be seen, and the shapely imprints of a pair calves, thighs, and buttocks can be made out perfectly indicating her former presence there, remaining for an eternity.
“I believe you all were witness to what transpired unto them were you not?” she asked holding up her left hand, they fluttered in panic, but they did little to flee.
“Your response verifies this, so fret not, your death may be instantaneous, or it may be an eternal nightmare. Either way, the end is here for you all.” And with that she snapped her fingers, within an instant, everything in 50 yards of where she stood were engulfed in flames. It was as if an explosion occurred. The village had yet to notice. The woman did not appear for several seconds from the fire, for she was in it. Then the flames parted, leading a path downhill, and out of this path walked the woman. Nothing on her had been altered by the fire, no burns, and no discoloration due to smoke. She felt nothing, no pain. Not physically, nor for what was lost in the fire. She walked gracefully with a smile down hill toward the road; she turned around and watched some butterflies escape the flames on fire. However, they fell to the ground after burning to death.
“Ah, the life of a butterfly is also as transient as a human life. Another thing they share.” She said in a pedagogical tone. She walks down from their, onward, to spread her wings of change.