If only I had feathered wings

A young girl away from home searches desperately for a friend by the sea...

 

        

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

         White fingers, stretched and malformed, float through the sky in a slow, unrehearsed way.  They fragment for brief moments and slowly reform into dragons and fleeting feelings.

         Sarah, her face torn by scraping shadows, stands alone.  Her sandy-colored hair wavers restlessly in the breeze as she stares at ancient, faded photos, covered with dust and tears.  Her feet feel hollow to her as they kick up mounds of loose sand and broken shells.  This sand, a cool, cold ice, with twisting feathered fingers, creeps up her worn, fragmented dress.

         Reefs of jagged, black rock, rise like lone pillars; monuments to the sempiternity of the sea.  They try to crawl from underneath their constant cover, but are ever forced adown under the relentless onslaught of the pounding, green waves; deep green waves that rise up like arched wings, then fall and shatter into glassed fragments and foam.

         The smell of dry fish and salt fill the air, as she walks further.  Rhythmic thunder drowns out the sound of circling, gray sea birds.

         Her eyes turn.  Ahead lays a piece of misshapen drift, cast from the belly of the sea.  From its form, a face appears, an arm grows, as does a leg, and the girl draws near.

         A young boy, his body nestled against his arms, sits awkwardly still.  His yellow hair stands, then falls abruptly, echoing the pattern of shifting wind.  Her dark shadow blankets his face as she sits beside him.

         Two stone bookends rest side to side, looking out to sea.  One turns with curled velvet lips, as if to speak, but hesitates in silence for a moment.

         “Do you come here often?” she says, after what seems a short stretch of hours.

         “I see you are here alone,” she hears him reply, without his lips ever twitching.

         She stares intently at him, trying to see past the wooden glare.

         Dark shadows cover them as ancient ghosts of iron and steel roar through the sky, leaving trails of gray, black smoke.

         “I’ve never been here before,” she says.

         “Parents bring you here then, did they?” he says.  Her head swings slow and steady, back to a neutral position, back to the endless drummer.

         “Moved me here,” she says as though reciting for a play.  “We had to move.  I feel so...”

         “Isolated?” he asks, as tiny crystal bottles begin to fall from the sky and shatter on the sand.  The girl stands.  The boy remains still.

         “I really must... must leave be...fore I am...soaked,” she sputters, as she runs off.

         Her room is small with enormous walls, covered with yellowed winged patterns that move and flutter.  It is cold, hollow.

         Sarah lies.  Her back rests against her bed.  Tightly sealed gold chests, filled with murking memories, lay scattered about the room.  Her eyes are caught, holding to a figurine hanging on the wall.

         Red; deep red and brown.  An oddly shaped wooden owl stares back at her.  It rests in the crest of a wooden moon.  A twisted smile creases its tiny face, though it can’t be seen.

         The girl now sits on the moon, looking down on the world below.  Figures move about like clockwork statues beneath her, shifting and scuffling as she goes unnoticed above them, watching their hollow eyes shedding hollow tears.

         Outside her, all is deep red; a scorched and smokey red.

         Awakened from a solemn slumber, the girl walks again along the barren sand.  Dark shadows grope and slide around her, as the black waves beat time in the distance.

         A darker shadow appears ahead.  The boys’ body is still resting on his arms.  The girl feels the cold grabbing her legs and arms and she sits beside him.

         “How long have you been resting by this sea? Do you never wander the waterway?” she asks, as pools of ice well up in the pockets of her eyes.

 

“If only I had feathered wings,

that could bend and curve and reach,

beyond imagined dreams,

unhindered by the weight of earth.”

 

         The whisper comes from the shadow.  A tiny ball of crystal slides down the girl’s cheek.

         Laced gray blankets fragment in the air, revealing small candles in the sky.

         The girl begins to choke and cough on her tears, and she leans toward the boy.  She feels the boy wrapping his arms around her, then he holds her.  She tries desperately to break free, but he is too strong.  A wooden hand covers her pale face and she ceases to struggle.

         Her body falls slowly back against the spindly, torn fragment of driftwood.  A twisted smile lifts her porcelain cheeks though it can’t be seen...

 

Author's Note

Short story in uni that inspired my first book: "An owl on the moon: A journal from the edge of darkness." The image of the owl on the moon came from a figure my mum gave me. I saw it on my wall while trying to come up with a short story idea for a creative writing class.

Reviews

[Wildfleour]

So classic you.........gentle, sensitive and exquisite.

[emmajoy]

This is exquisite! The phrases are diamond bright yet gentle as silk. What wonderful emotions expressed here and what incredible descriptions. I don't often eulogise but am going to here and now.

' Reefs of jagged, black rock, rise like lone pillars; monuments to the sempiternity of the sea. They try to crawl from underneath their constant cover, but are ever forced adown under the relentless onslaught of the pounding, green waves; deep green waves that rise up like arched wings, then fall and shatter into glassed fragments and foam.
The smell of dry fish and salt fill the air, as she walks further. Rhythmic thunder drowns out the sound of circling, gray sea birds.'

[Larry Dyson]

Sah-rah..holding him in the pavillion of those wished for wings...driftwood dreams ...released