Micro Fiction Monday: To Fly

There is a story told among my people, a tale of a girl who fell in love with the land dwellers. Legend says that she sold her voice to the sea gods in exchange for legs, so that she may join them in their cities and villages—but that’s where the story ends. From there, people argue of the outcome; some say she fell in love, and married human royalty. Others insist that her plan backfired, and in her heartbreak her body was turned to sea foam. This debate is one that has been going on for centuries—and one that I have no interest in.

She was foolish, that mermaid girl. The human world is disgusting and horrible, full of greedy mortals who destroy their own land, and the land of others, to advance their own selfish plans. I wouldn’t give up my voice, my fin, or anything to live with the likes of them.

But the sky, on the other hand....the sky is magical. The deep, endless blue that stretches on during the day, and the white lights that twinkle when the sun goes down. I want to brush my fingers against the fluffy white clouds that litter the sky, and replace the coolness of the water with the warmth of the sun against my skin. I want to pluck the moon out of the night and wear it around my neck like a locket, to stretch a new pair of muscles from my back and leave my dull world under the sea behind.

I don’t want to swim anymore.

I want to fly.

~~

Until later,

- Justyne

Skyward Dance (Micro-Fiction Monday)

When you’re ready, meet me above the clouds.

The wind wrapped itself around her body, brushing her hair against her skin and rustling the feathers behind her back. She flexed the muscles protruding from her back, stretching them out as far as they would reach. Her fingers twitched, feeling the wind that embraced her.

She took a breath and ran.

Her bare feet pounded against the dirt beneath her, splashing through puddles and crushing dead leaves. It was dark, but even so she could see the end of the earth fast approaching.

She stretched out her arms, shifted her wings. Her feet pushed off the ground for a final time, the weight of her body working with gravity to push her down, down towards the earth that was now far beneath her.

But gravity had never won against her before.

Within moments she was soaring, flying, swooping with the wind. Her wings carried her up, higher and higher, the wind growing colder and pricking her skin with goose bumps. She felt the moisture of the vapor as she entered the clouds; the things she had once imagined as fluffy cotton balls nothing more than water in disguise.

                

Thousands of stars, stretching out for miles and miles in all directions. The earth was far beneath her now; the air was thin and cold, her short breaths coming out in clouds of her own creation. The moon sparkled and shone in the sky—not as bright as the sun, but easier to look at.

Then there was him.

The moonlight accented his own wings as he circled around, riding the currents of air as he waited for her. He noticed her quickly and paused, allowing gravity to drop him towards her. He took her hands in his and the two shot upward, twirling and dipping and soaring together, as they performed their own skyward dance in the starlight.

~~

Until later,

- Justyne

Easy (Micro-Fiction Monday) (BEDS #8)

I hate the way they fly. The way they soar high in the sky, tumbling and twirling through the clouds. I hate them because I’m jealous—I’m willing to admit it. It’s not like it changes anything.

                

I can feel their eyes digging into my back, constantly, every day. Stop it! I want to scream. I’m just like you!

                

But I’m not. I used to be. I used to belong with them, I used to soar with them. But I don’t.

                

Not anymore.

                

Everything I used to love about the wings now angers me. The fluffy feathers that fall from the sky, tickling against my skin on contact. The speed at which young flyers zoom past my head, creating winds that send my hair flying. The white glow of their colour.

                

My parents won’t let me cut my wings off. They hide sharp objects carefully, now, thinking I won’t notice.

                

They’ll get better. Just have patience.

               

Easy for them to say, when they aren’t haunted by dark shadows in their mirrors. Easy for them to say, when their feathers aren’t rough and torn, scratching painfully against their skin. Easy for them to say, when the thing they love most is ripped away from them, with no explanation why.

                

Easy for them to say. They don’t know what it’s like for your wings to fall apart around you, turning from beautiful to hideous in the blink of an eye.

~~

Until later,

- Justyne