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The Butterfly Project

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The Butterfly Project was created with one simple question in mind. What would a female mafia look like? When we think of the word “Mafia” we think Italian men in designer suits, gold chains, chest hair sticking out of their open shirts, a toothpick between their teeth and a wad of cash in their inside jacket. We also think of gambling, extortion, money laundering, murder, betrayal and revenge. So to do what Hollywood does and just “insert female here” would not do it any justice.

I didn’t want another group of women in leather with guns, where they all know martial arts. I didn’t want it to be compared to Charlie’s Angels because the women I know would NEVER take orders from a man they never met, who communicates with them only through a speaker.

If women were to form a mafia (and many have, you just never hear about it or read about it) I doubt they would be that interested in monetary gain. For me, I think women would use their powers for good, not evil. (Most women). When I wrote “Butterflies Wake” I envisioned a large neighborhood watch that involved women taking out the bad guys themselves, because lets face it, the justice system has failed us. A piece of paper won’t keep a man from breaking into your house and beating the crap out of you, and a rape whistle on a college campus is a F***ing joke.

So after much thought and many volunteers, we put together a nice compilation of photos and a video (make sure you check out the you tube video at the bottom) showing what we think a female mafia would look like. Enjoy and share, these ladies did a great job! No men were hurt in the making of these photos. In fact, they are all awesome men who support feminism.

Butterflies Wake: Coming Soon

An underground society of vigilante women has been growing for many years and is starting to surface. They keep a low profile but their actions are strong. They right the wrongs of society, leaving no stone unturned, taking matters into their own hands where the justice system has failed. 

Butterflies Wake was originally written for television, then turned into a short film, and now it is being converted into a novel set to be released in January 2014. Check out an excerpt of the novel below as well as the trailer. See you in January….we’ll be watching.

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Fairytales always start with once upon a time and end with happily ever after. Somewhere in the middle there’s a prince, an evil queen and a distressed maiden, a victim of her own beauty. Gallantly, the prince rides in, saving his true love, proving his manhood and once again restoring balance to the universe. My fairytale, however, was not like that at all. Let’s take for example my ex-husband Ron. In our fairy tale, Ron was no prince. Don’t get me wrong; I truly believe he started off with good intentions. But, then he lost his job, started drinking and I became his personal punching bag. After the third miscarriage I was told I could never have children. At that point, I really didn’t care if I died.

But, on one particular evening back in 1977, something happened that would change my life forever. I had come home from the grocery store to find Ron sitting on the front steps of our house with his usual can of beer suctioned to his left hand as if it were an extension of his fingers. I could tell he had been drinking all day and was itching for a fight, so I didn’t even bother asking for help with the groceries. There was still the idea that I had to walk up the steps and past him to get to the front door. I prayed he didn’t attack me with the groceries still in my hand. I walked at a slow pace, avoiding eye contact and carefully slinked passed him hoping not to hit the back of him with the screen door as I squeezed through. I made it into the kitchen and managed to at least put away the frozen food, eggs and milk before the first punch was thrown.

When it was finally over, I found myself lying on my back on the front lawn covered in blood. I thought for sure I would be dead any minute judging from the amount of blood pouring out of my nose and the severity of the pain coursing through my body. But then something happened; I saw out of the corner of my eye a little boy standing in the street staring at Ron as he sat on the front steps drinking his beer and watching me die. The boy’s name was Patrick; he was around ten years old and he lived in our neighborhood. He stood there holding his baseball glove and ball and just stared at Ron for almost two whole minutes. I wanted to scream for him to run away but no sound would come out of my mouth. Then he turned and ran as fast as he could towards his house. I was happy he was safe, I didn’t want Ron to hurt him and I didn’t want that poor boy to be the witness to my death.

I blacked out again for a while and waited for death to take me. But it never came. Instead, two women from the neighborhood had come running towards me and were picking me up off the front lawn. I don’t recall much at the time but I do remember some words being exchanged between Priscilla and Ron. I didn’t know Priscilla that well at the time, other than that she was a nurse at the local hospital and had a son named Patrick, the boy who saw me on the lawn. He must have run to her for help. I feared Ron might hurt them too but I couldn’t speak or move. I was a rag doll, lifeless in their arms as they carried me back to their house. That was the last time I ever saw Ron. I don’t know what happened and I didn’t ask questions. I was just grateful that they found me when they did because they not only saved my life, but they changed the course of it forever.

My name is Camille Waters and a lot has changed since 1977. On the surface I appear as an ordinary southern woman in her 50’s, sitting on a porch swing sipping sweet tea or reading trashy romance novels down by the pier. But much like a fairytale, nothing is ever what it seems. The year is 2012 and I’m not that same woman anymore. Now I work for an underground society of women with one purpose; to right the wrongs of society where the justice system has failed. Some call us modern-day Iron Jawed Angels, others call us extremists, but we like to call ourselves, The Butterflies.

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