The Bird

This is a short story I wrote for english class.

It was a brilliant beast of radiant feathers, a plume of a tail fanned with various colors. A slender neck supported a handsome head with large, emerald-green eyes. The bird's radiance was truly captivating.

 

But something was missing, despite the countless pairs of eager eyes feasting upon the sight. The bird's brilliant green eyes did not traverse through the steel bars of the cage withholding it. They did not look up into the sky with lingering hope. Its gaze remained downward, down into the cold cobblestone floor of its captivity.

 

The bird vaguely remembered the warm, sun-baked earth beneath its talons. It longingly reminisced of the light African air rushing from its widely flapping wings. It longed for the stillness of the world, the soft silence so unlike the relentlessly sharp sounds of its new environment.

 

Never again would the bird feel the earth, the wind, the stillness. Only in memories would it run, fly, be free. For its captors had not only taken the bird's freedom, they had also taken its hope. Years had passed since the bird dreamt of its return home. Now, all it could do was remember, for memories were the only possession that could not be taken from it. For only in its dreams would it ever again see the rolling green African plains. Only in its mind would it ever feel the welcoming warmth of the sun-streaked air. And only in its heart would its pain ever be felt, for it was indifferent to the array of onlookers who marveled at the brilliant sight.