Feathers

The other day, I plucked another feather out of the back of my hand.

The first time I flew, I was five. My older brothers were supposed to walk with me when we all got off the school bus, but they ran ahead, like always. Laughing, punching each other.

Only a few feet off the ground that first time, and not for long. I brought my fists down by my sides, pushing downward. I can't describe to you my amazement when my feet left the ground. I pushed back with my palms, as if I were pushing off from the side of a swimming pool, and flew forward several paces. A hot wave of excitement rushed through my body. I stumbled a little when my feet touched back down, my face feeling like it might crack in two.

My brothers would've been in trouble if they'd walked in without me, so they waited at the end of the driveway.

"Did you run or something?"

I nodded, still beaming.

I practised every chance I got. It's a miracle no one caught me. My confidence grew. I went further and higher.

When I was eleven, my class had to do a cross-country run. I hated it! I wasn't fast, and was usually one of the last few kids to finish. This time, I trailed behind on purpose, and when there was no one else around, I flew around in a loop and landed in time to join the first cohort running the final stretch. I got a medal for finishing so quickly. I didn't even think about it being cheating. I'd practised as hard as anyone. I was special.

Feathers started appearing in my teens. The older I got, the more it happened every time I flew. Sometimes, I have to pretend I've lost my voice, because all that comes out is a cold shriek.

I fly less and less, but sometimes can't resist. My shoulder blades itch; I know there are more feathers sprouting that I can't reach. Maybe I can wait until I'm old, and then one day, I'll just take off into the sky.

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Word count (excluding note): 366

Submitted on 23rd February at 21:37

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