Feathers

Words are like feathers, tickling at the senses. A single feather can be beautiful, but when you have many feathers connected, it becomes gorgeous. It becomes a life changing story that imprints itself upon your inner person. Stories inspire, critique, alter and save lives. Finding the perfect mix of feathers to string together into a story has always been my dream. Exploring each feather is an art within itself. The English dictionary has 273,000  words in it. It seems like I would have so many feathers to explore, but instead I am at a loss for words. I lack the ability to connect my feathers beyond a kindergarten art project.

Acknowledging the lack of fluidity and unique story telling in my work drags me down into the ocean of misery like an anchor to a ship. Despite this dreaded feeling, I spend each night into the wee hours of the morning writing down each detailed part of my prosaic, dull life. Once in a blue moon, I have a somewhat comedic interaction with one of the few readers that file through the library, but I would hardly consider that to be impressive content in my journal. If I had even the most minuscule excitement in my life, I may find inspiration to really, truly take back my art, my soul, my passion— my life.

Yet here I am walking home in the rain at eleven at night on a Wednesday, finally finished with shelving all of the returned books that I had been wishing would magically shelve themselves. The umbrella above my head gave up. Water began to rip through the newly made hole, and my hair became drenched. “Not again,”  I huffed in annoyance as I took the short cut to my, admittedly rather sketchy, apartment complex. The joints in my hands already ached from writing, but the brisk, damp wind blowing harshly wasn’t helping.  With purpose, I strode down the back alley, not wanting to get wetter than I already was.

“Hey you,” A voice called. I briefly stopped, hesitating out of pure curiosity. We made eye contact. We made— direct— eye contact. “Yeah you… I’m talking to you!”

I snapped out of my daze, and I took a few steps back. From the looks of this guy, he doesn’t seem the slightest bit mentally stable. His whole body is shaking, and there wasn’t a single part of him that was dry.  He must have been waiting in the alley during the rainstorm, which seems like a rather poor meeting spot in my humble opinion. I wonder if it’s a meeting spot for a detective group or a conspiracy group or all the aliens who own human suits group. Okay, maybe that’s a little far fetched.  Perhaps none of this is to be true, and I just accidentally ran into a crazy homeless mad who is about to rob me. On the other hand, a secretive meeting in an alley would make for a much better story.  Should I book it?  Before I could even translate my thoughts of escape into actions, I was harshly shoved against a building. I should have pushed him away, but the adrenaline was addicting like catnip to a cat or a child to candy. The excitement thundered through my veins. I couldn’t move. Despite the action around me, I was action-less.  Where would this story lead? What would the next scene entail?

“I got the money for the boss, ‘kay?” The man spoke with a whimper in his voice. He was scared. No, he was petrified.

“Stop starin’ a hole into me, ya’ here?” The man practically begged as he trembled.

“Wait I—”

He cut me off. “Just take it, and leave me be. I want out. Tell the big guy I want out,”  he said before shoving a suitcase into my arms, looking both ways and then running away as fast as his legs could have possibly carried him.

Now, common sense would dictate that the next scene should be me calling the police, but when has common sense ever made a good story. This is the most interesting thing that has ever happened to me since my eighth grade graduation dance, and I was not about to let a storyline this intriguing wiggle away from my grasp.

So I did what any artistically inclined individual with a desperate sense of writers block would do, I walked home with the black suit case in hand as if that previous interaction hadn’t happened. After all, I didn’t want to look suspicious in the empty alleyway in the middle of the night while carrying a suitcase that looked much too nice for someone like me to ever own.

Each step up the stairs of the apartment complex sent shivers down my spine. Unease washed over my body, but I wouldn’t let it stop my flood of thoughts. Perhaps, this story will be a crime mystery or maybe it's a family drama. As long as it’s not a romance, I’ll be excited. I want adventures. I want fight scenes. I want a climax so powerful that the readers are gripping onto the pages of my little black book. I want to be the main character for once in my own life.

The air in my apartment was stale and stiff, unmoving and in shock. The leak from my faucet was slightly offbeat from its typical tempo, and I basked in every second of it.  This is what I needed. This is what I craved.

Slowly, I brushed my fingers against the textured leather suitcase before gently opening it. Money was filled to the brim, and a small folded piece of paper laid on the top. Written on this paper was an address and time. Nothing else was on it. I left the suitcase open on my small kitchen table while I typed the location and time on the paper into my calendar.  

In some small corner of my soul, I understood that this was not a game or a fantasy story, but can anyone blame me for craving something new. Breaking this tedious rhythm of life, which drags me by my ear to each new stanza, is not actually that bad.  Doesn’t everyone want their life to be a story that people practically fight over to read?

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, black mascara dripping down my face from the rain.  My hair stuck to my face. Dark circles outlined around my eyes. I looked even crazier than the man in the alley, but I didn’t take time to hesitate or reflect. I took the story into my own hands, and I opened my black journal so I could finally begin to thread together my feathers.