I don't know why they grew. Even less why they grew so low and crooked. Michelle (of course) looked more like an angel than ever with the elbows of her straight, silky-white-feathered appendages rising half a foot above her head.
My mother never wanted me to be a Level 2. They say she laced my oatmeal with arsenic to discourage growth.
All I know is that I was a foot shorter than everyone going into middle school. And more prone to, well, everything. Nosebleeds, dizziness, any sort of stomach bug.
Mrs. Richards tells me that my father was the most glorious crimson. And my mother a delicate pearl. But I am the faded maroon of a discarded, twisted bandaid.
And my right wing doesn't lay flat where my mother tried to twist it off.
They say she is an immigrant and doesn't understand that wings are natural here. Hers are organic prosthetics and Mrs. Richards says her balance has never recovered.
That's a double entendre. It means they think she's crazy.
I don't know why they grew. Even less why they grew so low and crooked. Michelle (of course) looked more like an angel than ever with the elbows of her straight, silky-white-feathered appendages rising half a foot above her head.
Of course, it also dawned on me: why should we have wings at all.
I looked at Michelle. She shrugged in a very European fashion (why did I think that?) which only served to make her gloriously adorned arms even more glorious. And confusing.
I looked down. Clouds, or so it seemed.
“Michelle,” I said, in what seemed to me to be a preternaturally loud voice. She looked at me and winced.
I swallowed hard and continued. “I think we’re having a dream or weird out of body experience. Or something. Any clues? Ideas? Anything?”
She seemed to float over, closer to me, but still said nothing.
“And anyway, how can we both be having the same dream. If that is the case. Is it?”
Michelle shook her head. The feathers of her wings swayed gently.
“Look down again, Armand.” she whispered. “What do you see?
I looked down again and stared. For a long while. Finally the clouds parted. I said, “I see a car accident.”
“Yes.” Michelle nodded.
“Oh my go-o- – Michelle! Is that us? Was that us? Were we in that accident?”
Again she nodded.
“And we died? Is that why the wings?”
“You’re finally getting it, Armand,” said Michelle. “They said that sometimes people are slow to grasp the truth of the situation. Especially when they were at fau – never mind. It doesn’t really matter now.”
I shook my bent and misshapen wings. “So we’re in heaven then? We died and went to heaven?”
“Well.” Michelle sighed. “You got part of it.”
“Huh? We died, right? In that car accident down there.”
“Yes.”
“So we’re in heaven.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.” Michelle closed her eyes for a second. When she opened them she said, “Do you remember anything, Armand? You were driving the car. We hit another car. We got killed. Among other things, your arms were broken. That’s why your strange looking wings. But so that you understand, we’re not in heaven. Not even close.”
“But – “
“Remember just before we collided you said that you didn’t believe in reincarnation? Well, guess what?”
I don't know why they grew. Even less why they grew so low and crooked. Michelle (of course) looked more like an angel than ever with the elbows of her straight, silky-white-feathered appendages rising half a foot above her head.
My wings were dark, like that of a raven or really dirty street pigeon. Nothing says eligible young fairy quite like the wings of a pest. Don't you think?
"They're not that bad." Michelle offered as she admired her own reflection in the mirror.
"Not you too." I groaned.
"What?" She asked, all eyelashes and pouty lips.
"I can't stand pity from you too. It's bad enough coming from my father and mother, but not you."
Michelle crossed the room, opening the ornately carved armoire and pulling an exquisite, hand-beaded cloak from inside.
"It's not pity, Isa. Your wings are unique and interesting."
"Right, because nothing makes the boys come-a-running like 'unique' wings." I sighed. "You're so beautiful, you can't understand what it's like."
Michelle rolled her eyes. "It doesn't matter right now." She said sternly. "Your unveiling isn't for another few weeks anyway. Maybe you'll grow into them by then."
She held the cloak out for me to put on. I slid my arms through each hole, gingerly placing the fabric over my tender back.
"See," Michelle spoke over my shoulder. "No one will ever know."
I stared into the mirror, hoping that Michelle was right. Maybe my wings weren't done growing. Perhaps this was just some weird stage in their development and over the next couple of weeks things would start to improve. Doubtful.
A knock sounded from the door, interrupting my pity party.
"Yes?" I called as the door slid open and my mother entered the room, replete in her full chapel regalia. A sparkly, but decidedly dimunuitive, crown sat upon her head.
"Hmm hmm." She cleared her throat, staring me sternly in the eye.
"Oh" I jumped, remembering Michelle. "Thank you." I said, embarrassment in my eyes. "That will be all for now."
My mother nodded in approval, her smug nose raise toward the ceiling as she waited for Michelle to leave.
"Glad to see you've taken our talk to heart, Isabel." She said, gathering the folds of her enormous skirt in her hand and stepping forward to examine my attire. "We can't very well have the Princess gossiping like a little girl with her handmaiden, now can we? It's important to set boundaries with the help."
My mother never wanted me to be a Level 2. They say she laced my oatmeal with arsenic to discourage growth.
ReplyDeleteAll I know is that I was a foot shorter than everyone going into middle school. And more prone to, well, everything. Nosebleeds, dizziness, any sort of stomach bug.
Mrs. Richards tells me that my father was the most glorious crimson. And my mother a delicate pearl. But I am the faded maroon of a discarded, twisted bandaid.
And my right wing doesn't lay flat where my mother tried to twist it off.
They say she is an immigrant and doesn't understand that wings are natural here. Hers are organic prosthetics and Mrs. Richards says her balance has never recovered.
That's a double entendre. It means they think she's crazy.
I don't know why they grew. Even less why they grew so low and crooked. Michelle (of course) looked more like an angel than ever with the elbows of her straight, silky-white-feathered appendages rising half a foot above her head.
ReplyDeleteOf course, it also dawned on me: why should we have wings at all.
I looked at Michelle. She shrugged in a very European fashion (why did I think that?) which only served to make her gloriously adorned arms even more glorious. And confusing.
I looked down. Clouds, or so it seemed.
“Michelle,” I said, in what seemed to me to be a preternaturally loud voice. She looked at me and winced.
I swallowed hard and continued. “I think we’re having a dream or weird out of body experience. Or something. Any clues? Ideas? Anything?”
She seemed to float over, closer to me, but still said nothing.
“And anyway, how can we both be having the same dream. If that is the case. Is it?”
Michelle shook her head. The feathers of her wings swayed gently.
“Look down again, Armand.” she whispered. “What do you see?
I looked down again and stared. For a long while. Finally the clouds parted. I said, “I see a car accident.”
“Yes.” Michelle nodded.
“Oh my go-o- – Michelle! Is that us? Was that us? Were we in that accident?”
Again she nodded.
“And we died? Is that why the wings?”
“You’re finally getting it, Armand,” said Michelle. “They said that sometimes people are slow to grasp the truth of the situation. Especially when they were at fau – never mind. It doesn’t really matter now.”
I shook my bent and misshapen wings. “So we’re in heaven then? We died and went to heaven?”
“Well.” Michelle sighed. “You got part of it.”
“Huh? We died, right? In that car accident down there.”
“Yes.”
“So we’re in heaven.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.” Michelle closed her eyes for a second. When she opened them she said, “Do you remember anything, Armand? You were driving the car. We hit another car. We got killed. Among other things, your arms were broken. That’s why your strange looking wings. But so that you understand, we’re not in heaven. Not even close.”
“But – “
“Remember just before we collided you said that you didn’t believe in reincarnation? Well, guess what?”
“Oh no!” I squawked.
Wow B. you've done it again. Confused the h*** out of me but...in a good way!
ReplyDeleteRJ, you had me going and then...LOL!
I don't know why they grew. Even less why they grew so low and crooked. Michelle (of course) looked more like an angel than ever with the elbows of her straight, silky-white-feathered appendages rising half a foot above her head.
ReplyDeleteMy wings were dark, like that of a raven or really dirty street pigeon. Nothing says eligible young fairy quite like the wings of a pest. Don't you think?
"They're not that bad." Michelle offered as she admired her own reflection in the mirror.
"Not you too." I groaned.
"What?" She asked, all eyelashes and pouty lips.
"I can't stand pity from you too. It's bad enough coming from my father and mother, but not you."
Michelle crossed the room, opening the ornately carved armoire and pulling an exquisite, hand-beaded cloak from inside.
"It's not pity, Isa. Your wings are unique and interesting."
"Right, because nothing makes the boys come-a-running like 'unique' wings." I sighed. "You're so beautiful, you can't understand what it's like."
Michelle rolled her eyes. "It doesn't matter right now." She said sternly. "Your unveiling isn't for another few weeks anyway. Maybe you'll grow into them by then."
She held the cloak out for me to put on. I slid my arms through each hole, gingerly placing the fabric over my tender back.
"See," Michelle spoke over my shoulder. "No one will ever know."
I stared into the mirror, hoping that Michelle was right. Maybe my wings weren't done growing. Perhaps this was just some weird stage in their development and over the next couple of weeks things would start to improve. Doubtful.
A knock sounded from the door, interrupting my pity party.
"Yes?" I called as the door slid open and my mother entered the room, replete in her full chapel regalia. A sparkly, but decidedly dimunuitive, crown sat upon her head.
"Hmm hmm." She cleared her throat, staring me sternly in the eye.
"Oh" I jumped, remembering Michelle. "Thank you." I said, embarrassment in my eyes. "That will be all for now."
My mother nodded in approval, her smug nose raise toward the ceiling as she waited for Michelle to leave.
"Glad to see you've taken our talk to heart, Isabel." She said, gathering the folds of her enormous skirt in her hand and stepping forward to examine my attire. "We can't very well have the Princess gossiping like a little girl with her handmaiden, now can we? It's important to set boundaries with the help."
B. - I need to know about these Levels, and crimsons and pearls. Very intriguing!
ReplyDeleteExcellent work to all, as usual.
Nice ones, lighty, Em.
ReplyDeleteUnfortunately, this piece of flash is nothing but stage dressing; it doesn't extend much beyond the side curtains.
If you'd like, Em, you're more than welcome to explore the world. Just mention me in your acknowledgments section!
Haha. Thanks, B!
ReplyDelete