Lunch Ticket
  • Current Issue
  • Archive
    • Issues Archive
      • Issue 21: Summer/Fall 2022
      • Issue 20: Winter/Spring 2022
      • Issue 19: Summer/Fall 2021
      • Issue 18: Winter/Spring 2021
      • Issue 17: Summer/Fall 2020
      • Issue 16: Winter/Spring 2020
      • Issue 15: Summer/Fall 2019
      • Issue 14: Winter/Spring 2019
      • Issue 13: Summer/Fall 2018
      • Issue 12: Winter/Spring 2018
      • Issue 11: Summer/Fall 2017
      • Issue 10: Winter/Spring 2017
      • Issue 9: Summer/Fall 2016
      • Issue 8: Winter/Spring 2016
      • Issue 7: Summer/Fall 2015
      • Issue 6: Winter/Spring 2015
      • Issue 5: Summer/Fall 2014
      • Issue 4: Winter/Spring 2014
      • Issue 3: Summer/Fall 2013
      • Issue 2: Winter/Spring 2013
      • Issue 1: Spring 2012
    • Genre Archive
      • Creative Nonfiction
      • Essays
      • Fiction
      • Flash Prose
      • Interviews
      • Lunch Specials
      • Poetry
      • Translation
      • Visual Art
      • Writing for Young People
  • About
    • Mission Statement
    • Lunch Ticket Staff
      • Issue 21: Summer/Fall 2022
      • Issue 20: Winter/Spring 2022
      • Issue 19: Summer/Fall 2021
      • Issue 18: Winter/Spring 2021
      • Issue 17: Summer/Fall 2020
      • Issue 16: Winter/Spring 2020
      • Issue 15: Summer/Fall 2019
      • Issue 14: Winter/Spring 2019
      • Issue 13: Summer/Fall 2018
      • Issue 12: Winter/Spring 2018
      • Issue 11: Summer/Fall 2017
      • Issue 10: Winter/Spring 2017
      • Issue 9: Summer/Fall 2016
      • Issue 8: Winter/Spring 2016
      • Issue 7: Summer/Fall 2015
      • Issue 6: Winter/Spring 2015
      • Issue 5: Summer/Fall 2014
      • Issue 4: Winter/Spring 2014
      • Issue 3: Summer/Fall 2013
      • Issue 2: Winter/Spring 2013
      • Issue 1: Spring 2012
    • Achievements
    • Community
    • Contact
  • Weekly Content
    • Friday Lunch Blog
    • Midnight Snack
    • Amuse-Bouche
    • School Lunch
  • Contests
    • Diana Woods Award in CNF
      • Issue 21: Summer/Fall 2022
      • Issue 20: Winter/Spring 2022
      • Issue 19: Summer/Fall 2021
      • Issue 18: Winter/Spring 2021
      • Issue 17: Summer/Fall 2020
      • Issue 16: Winter/Spring 2020
      • Issue 15: Summer/Fall 2019
      • Issue 14: Winter/Spring 2019
      • Issue 13: Summer/Fall 2018
      • Issue 12: Winter/Spring 2018
      • Issue 11: Summer/Fall 2017
      • Issue 10: Winter/Spring 2017
      • Issue 9: Summer/Fall 2016
      • Issue 8: Winter/Spring 2016
      • Issue 7: Summer/Fall 2015
      • Issue 6: Winter/Spring 2015
      • Issue 5: Summer/Fall 2014
      • Issue 4: Winter/Spring 2014
      • Issue 3: Summer/Fall 2013
    • Gabo Prize in Translation
      • Issue 21: Summer/Fall 2022
      • Issue 20: Winter/Spring 2022
      • Issue 19: Summer/Fall 2021
      • Issue 18: Winter/Spring 2021
      • Issue 17: Summer/Fall 2020
      • Issue 16: Winter/Spring 2020
      • Issue 15: Summer/Fall 2019
      • Issue 14: Winter/Spring 2019
      • Issue 13: Summer/Fall 2018
      • Issue 12: Winter/Spring 2018
      • Issue 11: Summer/Fall 2017
      • Issue 10: Winter/Spring 2017
      • Issue 9: Summer/Fall 2016
      • Issue 8: Winter/Spring 2016
      • Issue 7: Summer/Fall 2015
      • Issue 6: Winter/Spring 2015
    • Twitter Poetry Contest
      • 2021 Winners
      • 2020 Winners
      • 2019 Winners
  • Submissions
  • Search
  • Menu Menu
  • Facebook
  • Instagram
  • Twitter

Pinned Butterflies

November 18, 2019/ Jenn Powers

[fiction]

I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want to be this anymore. So strip. Let the little black dress fall onto the bathroom floor. Step into the shower and turn on the hot water. Hotter. Hotter. Porcelain skin, crimson lips, and those damn fake eyelashes rinse off and stick to the tiny blue tiles. He’s yelling again. He jiggles the doorknob. It’s locked. I melt into the steam, no longer preserved, displayed. He asks if I’m almost ready for God’s sake. I don’t answer. I just watch the sick colors swirl down the drain—the black, the blue, the gold.

I step out of the shower, pat my skin dry. Slip on the little black dress again. The one with the long sleeves to hide the violet imprints from his fingers. I may as well comply. Just one last time.

Because I don’t want to be this anymore: a doll in a box, a trophy, a pinned butterfly.

I watched a video once on how to mount a butterfly. The butterfly is stolen from its habitat and placed inside a killing jar of ethyl acetate. Then the thorax is pinned—like a knife impaling the core—and the wings are flattened beneath glass slides. It’s labeled where it was collected: a swanky bar, a city park, yoga class.

Now. The front passenger seat of the Lamborghini. The flashy red car hugs the roads bordered with sea grass. This island is a trap. Once you’re here, you’re here. I shouldn’t have come. Nothing ever changes. At least until morning—that blue light of dawn. That peaceful time no one can ruin—not even him. I’ll hop the ferry or board a small plane—the kinds that always crash—to the mainland. The earliest departure is seven a.m.—to a sunlit field of wildflowers. I looked it up on my phone this morning.

He can’t wait to get to the next bar. He’s already had three martinis at dinner. He grabs my thigh, pushes it away. It leaves a tingly feeling. He cranks the music. He clenches his capped teeth. He’s in that mood. I hate that mood.

He parks outside the bar lit up with tiki torches and strings of lights in the shape of flip- flops. The bar television plays the movie Jaws. I spot a bachelorette party: six gleeful twenty-somethings, tanned, drunk, and glittery. I spot the bride-to-be. I want to tell her: don’t do it. They change. And then you do too.

He pulls me closer. He displays me: the little black dress, Christian Louboutins, Tiffany’s. He shows off his car to the younger, hopeful men. He hates them because they remind him of something he lost. He eyes their pretty girlfriends. They all drink and chat and laugh at a small round table outside. The only reason he stays is because he loves the adoration. His posture is proud. His head is held high. They think I have it made. I try to engage with the youthful partiers, but it feels like there are rocks in my stomach. And I’m sinking. Instead, I gaze at the shark on television and watch how the victim’s blood blooms into saltwater.

It’s one a.m., then two, and we’re hurrying along those narrow roads back to the rented beach house where I can’t breathe, where I pretend to sleep like the dead to avoid him. The black ocean flashes silver streaks of moonlight.

This will be the last time. I’ll take the small plane to the mainland before he’s up. Before he makes his flaxseed smoothie. Before he heads to the gym and pumps iron for all the twenty-somethings on treadmills.

He speeds up around a corner on purpose. He knows it makes me nervous. I can see my ending. Delicate papery wings the color of copper pennies and blue velvet, torn by forceps, discarded, forgotten. A tight ball of crushed metal. Blood on the pavement. I imagine it in detail and it’s always there. I close my eyes. This will be the last time. It’ll be fine. Really.

Jenn Powers is a writer and visual artist from New England. She has earned an MFA in creative writing from Western Connecticut State University. She is currently working on a psychological thriller, and she has work published or forthcoming in approximately seventy literary journals, including The Pinch, Jabberwock Review, Thin Air Magazine, Spillway, and CALYX Journal, among others. Her work has been anthologized in Running Wild Press, Kasva Press, and Scribes Valley Publishing. She’s also been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Please visit http://www.jennpowers.com.

Issue Archive

  • Issue 21: Summer/Fall 2022
  • Issue 20: Winter/Spring 2022
  • Issue 19: Summer/Fall 2021
  • Issue 18: Winter/Spring 2021
  • Issue 17: Summer/Fall 2020
  • Issue 16: Winter/Spring 2020
  • Issue 15: Summer/Fall 2019
  • Issue 14: Winter/Spring 2019
  • Issue 13: Summer/Fall 2018
  • Issue 12: Winter/Spring 2018
  • Issue 11: Summer/Fall 2017
  • Issue 10: Winter/Spring 2017
  • Issue 9: Summer/Fall 2016
  • Issue 8: Winter/Spring 2016
  • Issue 7: Summer/Fall 2015
  • Issue 6: Winter/Spring 2015
  • Issue 5: Summer/Fall 2014
  • Issue 4: Winter/Spring 2014
  • Issue 3: Summer/Fall 2013
  • Issue 2: Winter/Spring 2013
  • Issue 1: Spring 2012

Genre Archive

  • Creative Nonfiction
  • Essays
  • Fiction
  • Flash Prose
  • Lunch Specials
  • Poetry
  • Interviews
  • Translation
  • Visual Art
  • Writing for Young People

Friday Lunch Blog

Friday Lunch! A serving of contemporary essays published every Friday.

Today’s course:

Peace, Love, and a lot of Loud Rock & Roll

June 17, 2022/in A Transfer, Blog / Sunee Lyn Foley
Read more
https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2022/06/0F6155F4-C1C9-45E1-BE9D-CA099003FB8E.jpeg 513 474 Sunee Lyn Foley https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/12/lunch-ticket-logo-white-text-only.png Sunee Lyn Foley2022-06-17 14:31:102022-06-18 09:02:31Peace, Love, and a lot of Loud Rock & Roll

Crosses to Pentacles

June 10, 2022/in A Transfer, Blog / Jazmine Cooper
Read more
https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/09/cooperjazmine.portrait-1.jpg 2216 2216 Jazmine Cooper https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/12/lunch-ticket-logo-white-text-only.png Jazmine Cooper2022-06-10 14:00:592022-06-10 14:00:59Crosses to Pentacles

Table to Trash

June 3, 2022/in A Transfer, Blog / Franz Franta
Read more
https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2022/06/IMG_9842-scaled-1.jpg 2560 1920 Franz Franta https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/12/lunch-ticket-logo-white-text-only.png Franz Franta2022-06-03 13:15:242022-06-13 18:25:13Table to Trash

More Friday Lunch Blog »

Midnight Snack

A destination for all your late night obsessions.

Tonight’s bites:

QVC-land

May 6, 2022/in A Transfer, Midnight Snack / D. E. Hardy
Read more
https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2022/05/Diana-Hardy_QVC_Feature_Photo.png 533 800 D. E. Hardy https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/12/lunch-ticket-logo-white-text-only.png D. E. Hardy2022-05-06 23:45:322022-05-06 23:45:32QVC-land

Escape Artists at the End of the World

April 29, 2022/in A Transfer, Midnight Snack / Lisa Levy
Read more
https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2022/04/waldemar-brandt-eIOPDU3Fkwk-unsplash-scaled-1.jpg 1707 2560 Lisa Levy https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/12/lunch-ticket-logo-white-text-only.png Lisa Levy2022-04-29 23:49:582022-06-13 18:34:12Escape Artists at the End of the World

The House in the Middle

April 15, 2022/in A Transfer, Midnight Snack / Megan Vasquez
Read more
https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2022/04/alec-douglas-iuC9fvq63J8-unsplash-scaled-1.jpg 2560 1707 Megan Vasquez https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/12/lunch-ticket-logo-white-text-only.png Megan Vasquez2022-04-15 23:45:322022-04-15 23:45:32The House in the Middle

More coming soon!

Amuse-Bouche

Little bites every Monday to whet your appetite!

Today’s plate:

Eggs, No Basket

June 27, 2022/in A Transfer, Amuse-Bouche, CNF / Kelsi Long
Read more
https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2022/05/raiyan-zach-jDkrpWtSkb4-unsplash-scaled-1.jpg 2560 1440 Kelsi Long https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/12/lunch-ticket-logo-white-text-only.png Kelsi Long2022-06-27 11:55:552022-06-27 11:55:55Eggs, No Basket

The Revolution Began at Book Club

June 20, 2022/in A Transfer, Amuse-Bouche, Fiction / Sari Fordham
Read more
https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2022/05/alexis-brown-omeaHbEFlN4-unsplash-scaled-1.jpg 1707 2560 Sari Fordham https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/12/lunch-ticket-logo-white-text-only.png Sari Fordham2022-06-20 11:55:162022-06-20 11:55:16The Revolution Began at Book Club

A Letter to the Dead Grandmothers That Raised Us

June 13, 2022/in A Transfer, Amuse-Bouche, Poetry / Levi J. Mericle
Read more
https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2022/05/khamkeo-vilaysing-AMQEB4-uG9k-unsplash-scaled-1.jpg 1829 2560 Levi J. Mericle https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/12/lunch-ticket-logo-white-text-only.png Levi J. Mericle2022-06-13 11:55:132022-06-13 11:55:13A Letter to the Dead Grandmothers That Raised Us

More Amuse-Bouche »

School Lunch

An occasional Wednesday series dishing up today’s best youth writers.

Today’s slice:

I’ve Stayed in the Front Yard

May 12, 2021/in School Lunch, School Lunch 2021 / Brendan Nurczyk
Read more
https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/05/SL-Insta-Brendan-Nurczyk-2.png 1500 1500 Brendan Nurczyk https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/12/lunch-ticket-logo-white-text-only.png Brendan Nurczyk2021-05-12 10:18:392022-02-01 13:24:05I’ve Stayed in the Front Yard

A Communal Announcement

April 28, 2021/in School Lunch, School Lunch 2021 / Isabella Dail
Read more
https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/04/SL-FB-Isabella-Dail.png 788 940 Isabella Dail https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/12/lunch-ticket-logo-white-text-only.png Isabella Dail2021-04-28 11:34:132021-04-28 11:34:13A Communal Announcement

Seventeen

April 14, 2021/in School Lunch, School Lunch 2021 / Abigail E. Calimaran
Read more
https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/04/SL-Insta-Abigail-E.-Calimaran.png 1080 1080 Abigail E. Calimaran https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/12/lunch-ticket-logo-white-text-only.png Abigail E. Calimaran2021-04-14 11:22:062021-04-14 11:22:06Seventeen

More School Lunch »

Word From the Editor

The variety in this issue speaks not only to the eclectic world we inhabit but to the power of the human spirit. We live in an uncertain world. In the U.S., we’re seeing mass shootings daily. Across the world, we’re still very much in a pandemic, some being trapped in their homes for weeks on end, others struggling to stay alive in hospitals. War continues to wage in Ukraine. Iran and North Korea are working diligently to make nuclear weapons. The list goes on. Still, we have artists who are willing and able to be vulnerable with one another, to share stories and art to help us try and make sense of our world.

More from the current editor »
Current Issue »

Connect With Us

lunchticket on facebooklunchticket on instalunchticket on twitter
Submit to Lunch Ticket

A literary and art journal
from the MFA community at
Antioch University Los Angeles.

Get Your Ticket

We’ll keep you fed with great new writing, insightful interviews, and thought-provoking art, and promise with all our hearts never to share your info with anyone else.

Newsletter Signup
Copyright © 2021 LunchTicket.org. All Rights Reserved. Web design and development by GoodWebWorks.
Scroll to top