Feathered

The bird girl had a dream, and it was to fly. She sat in her nest as the nights went by and looked at the moon, and she dreamed of flying.

Her nest mates had long since left the tree they had been born in. She was the only one, with her little wings, her delicate downy fluff, and her fear of flying. She had a dream, and it was to fly, but first - she had to conquer herself.

One night, in the silver light of the moon, the bird girl stood up. She brushed off her downy fluff and smoothed her skirt. She primped, running narrow, sharp fingers through her hair. She straightened her beak. She was scared, and she was ready.

First she stepped out of her nest. It was old, far too small for her. Once, it had housed the chirrups of a whole flock of little bird children. Now, it sheltered only her, and its soft insides, padded with feathers and the webs of spiders, were cold.

Then she took her first step towards the end of the branch the nest nestled on. The bird girl's feet were cold, and her hands shook. She wrapped her wings a little closer about herself. A gentle breeze lifted her delicate skirt. She advanced along the branch.

The bird girl had a dream, and it was to fly. Today, at long last, with her little wings, her delicate downy fluff, and her fear of flying: she was going to live it. No more fear, no more waiting. She chanced a glance back at the nest that had sheltered her for so long. And the bird girl told herself:

That's it. That's it. I will fly today, and that is that.

And so the bird girl walked along the length of the branch, the cold bark grazing her crusty feet, her sharp nails digging into it for grip. She walked. As she walked she unfurled her wings, the downy fluff leaving the embrace of her body. She was ready - oh, she was ready.

At the end of the branch, where the winds sang the loudest and the breeze was cold, the bird girl stopped. She teetered at the edge, her centre of gravity forever shifting as she was buffeted by unending gusts. She closed her eyes briefly, took a deep breath, then opened them. She straightened her beak once more. Her fingers clenched and unclenched, and a bright bead of blood pooled in her right palm.

The bird girl had a dream, and it was to fly. She stretched her wings out to their fullest, her little wings with their downy fluff. She stretched out her fear of flying. It felt like a membrane pulled far too tight. She was a bubble within it, filling it to bursting. Her heart soared with fear.

The bird girl stepped off the branch and gave herself to the sky. And whether she lived or died, she flew that day, with her little wings, her downy fluff, and her fear of flying; and that was that.