One day he did it, he jettisoned the wings, which had become a heavy burden.

He learned the ways of land-based bipeds and spent many a happy day walking upright among the humans. He learned to speak like a human, but with a hawk accent.

Not long had passed before he began to deeply regret casting away the gift of flight. His scapulae had reformed to be used with human arms, his talons were deformed from human shoes. He regretted filling his days with a cubicle, meetings, appointments, wearing a reminder of burdened time on his human arm. He regretted thinking about money, savings, his structured life.

He never understood the need to walk or take a subway to an airless place to exercise on a machine. He missed the days of soaring above lakes and fields, swooping down and sinking his razor-sharp claws into whatever he wanted to eat.

He regretted giving up flight, being aloft on thermal updrafts, his life above the ire and thorns of humans. He regretted thinking his daydream was a burden.

With scorn for stairs, he stood on the roof of his apartment looking at the city below. Unable to grip the roof’s edge, he was overwhelmed at the desire to flee, to escape … to anywhere. He examined the remains of wings on his shoulders and flexed his flight muscles. He screeched and howled and yelled, scaring away pigeons and squirrels.

The city air filled his mighty lungs as his mind recounted soaring weightlessly through the currents of a daydream.

“And to a daydream I must return,” he yelled, the thought reverberating forward, spreading left and right through his flightless mind.

Brian McGloin

Writing

Posts tagged with flightless

How to find soaring, again