Bartholomew's Idea

The hum of the fluorescent lights in Bartholomew’s attic was a dull thrum against the frantic beating of his heart. Outside, a cacophony of screams, cackles, and the occasional distant “trick or treat!” announced the arrival of Halloween. Inside, Bartholomew was engaged in a far more personal, and arguably more terrifying, battle.

He was wrestling with a giant, shimmering, iridescent fabric. It was meant to be wings. Glorious, magnificent, dragonfly wings. The problem was, the wire framing seemed to have developed a mind of its own, contorting into shapes that resembled less celestial insect and more abstract modern art gone horribly wrong. A stray thread snagged on his finger, and he yelped, pulling his hand back.

“Just… a little… more…” he grunted, attempting to coax a particularly stubborn fold into submission. This was his masterpiece, his magnum opus. For years, Bartholomew had approached Halloween with a quiet, almost apologetic enthusiasm. He’d gone as a “slightly inconvenienced ghost” (a sheet with eyeholes), a “mildly peckish vampire” (a cape and two plastic fangs), and once, unremarkably, as “a man in a jumper.” But this year, he’d decided, was different. This year, Bartholomew, the quiet accountant with a penchant for Earl Grey and lukewarm biscuits, was going to be… spectacular.

He’d seen a documentary about dragonflies. Their iridescent wings, their aerial acrobatics, the delicate yet powerful way they navigated the air. There was an elegance, a fleeting, breathtaking beauty in them that resonated with something deep within Bartholomew, a yearning for something more vibrant than his beige existence. So, he’d spent weeks, meticulously sketching, sourcing materials from obscure online craft stores, and enduring the raised eyebrows of the postman who’d begun to associate Bartholomew’s address with an inordinate amount of sparkly cellophane and pipe cleaners.

Finally, with a triumphant, albeit shaky, flourish, he managed to secure the last of the wing supports. The creation was… enormous. It dwarfed him, stretching from one dusty rafter to another. The fabric, a shimmering blend of blues, greens, and purples, caught the dim attic light and threw dazzling reflections onto the forgotten boxes and discarded furniture. Bartholomew carefully sidestepped a precariously balanced tower of old board games and stepped into the centre of the wings.

Attaching them proved to be another ordeal. Straps were adjusted, buckles were fumbled with, and Bartholomew’s face was beginning to feel the strain of holding his breath. He’d designed it so the wings would be supported by his shoulders and a clever harness system, allowing them to move with him. In theory. In practice, it felt like he was strapped to a large, unstable kite.

He risked a glance in the cracked mirror propped against a trunk. His reflection was… startling. The wings, when held aloft, were undeniably impressive. They shimmered and shifted with every tiny movement he made, a kaleidoscope of colour. Bartholomew, with his thinning grey hair and slightly too-formal trousers, looked like a startled, middle-aged moth that had accidentally stumbled into a rave. He adjusted his spectacles, a nervous habit.

“Right,” he muttered to his reflection, his voice a little breathless. “Dragonfly. It’s a dragonfly.”

He carefully navigated his way down the narrow attic stairs, each creak of the wood amplified by his anxiety. He bumped into the banister, sending a cascade of phantom colours bouncing off the walls. His cat, a sleek black creature named Midnight, who had been observing the proceedings with a mixture of disdain and mild horror, shot under the sofa with a hiss.

“It’s for Halloween, Midnight,” Bartholomew explained weakly, already feeling a prickle of self-consciousness.

He made his way to the front door, the wings catching on the doorframe. He twisted and contorted, his movements increasingly frantic, until finally, with a rustle of iridescent fabric, he was free. He stood on his doorstep, illuminated by the porch light, the vast wings splayed out behind him.

The first trick-or-treaters, a pair of impossibly small vampires, stopped dead in their tracks, their eyes wide. Their parents, a witch and a zombie, exchanged amused glances.

“Wow!” squeaked one of the tiny vampires, dropping his plastic pumpkin so it rolled to Bartholomew’s feet.

Bartholomew smiled, a genuine, albeit nervous, beam. “Happy Halloween,” he said, his voice a little shaky.

“What are you?” asked the witch, raising a painted eyebrow.

Bartholomew puffed out his chest slightly. “I’m a dragonfly.”

The zombie chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. “Never seen a dragonfly quite like that before, mate. Bit… big.”

Bartholomew managed a weak laugh. “It’s… artistic license.”

As the night wore on, Bartholomew found himself increasingly comfortable in his unusual costume. The initial awkwardness began to fade, replaced by a quiet sense of satisfaction. Children pointed and giggled, not with mockery, but with wonder. Adults offered compliments, their faces alight with amusement and a touch of admiration. He even saw a teenager filming him on their phone, which Bartholomew interpreted as a sign of success.

He discovered that the wings, while cumbersome, did have a certain elegance. When he walked slowly, they swayed gently, catching the moonlight and casting a mesmerizing shimmer. He even attempted a tentative little flutter, which resulted in a near-collision with a garden gnome but elicited delighted shrieks from a group of children.

Around ten o’clock, a particularly enthusiastic group of teenagers, dressed as various members of a horror movie franchise, approached his house. They were loud, boisterous, and clearly fuelled by sugar.

“Whoa, dude! Awesome wings!” shouted a guy with a hockey mask.

Bartholomew beamed. “Thank you. They’re… handmade.”

“No way! That’s sick!” a girl with fake blood splattered across her face exclaimed. “You should totally come to the party over on Elm Street. It’s gonna be epic!”

Bartholomew hesitated. Parties weren't really his thing. He preferred quiet evenings with a good book and a cup of tea. But then he looked at his magnificent, shimmering wings, a testament to his quiet rebellion against the mundane. He looked at the delighted faces of the teenagers. And for the first time, Bartholomew felt a surge of something akin to courage.

“Well,” he said, a mischievous glint in his eye. “I suppose a dragonfly needs to dance.”

He carefully navigated the sidewalk, the giant wings swaying behind him like a magnificent, iridescent sail. He stumbled once, nearly taking out a small child dressed as a superhero, but recovered with a surprising amount of grace. The teenagers cheered him on, their excitement contagious.

As he reached Elm Street, the music from the party spilled out into the night, a thumping bassline that vibrated through the pavement. Bartholomew stood on the kerb, a towering, shimmering dragonfly amidst the ghosts, ghouls, and witches. He took a deep breath, the cool night air filling his lungs. The wings felt heavy, but also… liberating. He was no longer Bartholomew, the quiet accountant. Tonight, he was something more. Tonight, he was a spectacle. A breathtaking, iridescent, utterly improbable dragonfly. And as he stepped into the pulsing heart of the party, his wings catching the flashing coloured lights, he couldn't help but feel that he had finally, truly, taken flight.