A story of completion.
Once upon a time, there lived a bird family, nesting high above the ground of a jungle. Their home rested on a rather large branch, well above danger and worry. The family, each day, would take off as one, taking flight into the sky. But one day, the mother had laid another egg. This one shaped oddly.
It took weeks for it to hatch, and when it did, a young bird was born. Perhaps the egg had taken damage prior to hatching, because this bird was disfigured; his left wing was missing, leaving a feathery stump in its place.
This was strange and disappointing; but still, the birds migrated together, even the children, for flights, leaving
the broken bird to stare at their retreating forms. He imagined the rush of the wind flowing over them, making them feel free. It grew apparent that each day, he was doomed to nothing. Just nothing. And that was the bird’s worst nightmare.
He was a frail bird to start; sad, thin, out of shape, alone. The bleakness increased each day the more they left. It seemed they hardly cared so as long as they could do it themselves. The crushing weight of it all nearly made him give up, but he had one thing that he thought made him special: Hope.
So it was each day, for weeks on end, that he would look at his stump and his family, waiting for a wing to magically appear, settling the sad things he went through daily. But it never happened, even after another week.
One day, an Owl came to visit his nest. It was a mean thing, staring at him with disgust. He ridiculed the young bird, saying that he was worthless and without purpose. He did it to the point that the bird cried, unrestrained, hard tears. The Owl had smiled and flew away.
The next day, the bird stared at the sky and clouds and heavens and said that he would fly into them, even if he died he would. It was all he ever wanted, all he needed.
It had gotten to the point where his family would treat him like he wasn’t there; they’d eat, laugh, play games, but leave him in the shadows. It just seemed he was never meant to fit in, either.
He realized that he would only have more pain the more nothing happened. It was time to take action. His family flew again far away from the nest, leaving him once again alone. He looked at the nest and found some sticks and hay. He was suddenly afraid, afraid of the pain it would cause.
But he summoned his courage and painfully sowed the hay into his stump with the stick. Blood trickled a little, but he had done it. It looked almost every bit of a real wing, the tool that was the key to joy.
He waited until his family had returned, and the next day when they were about to take off. He knew he had no training for flight, no muscle exercised, little aerodynamics on his body, and was barely fed ( he had ignored
the food before him ), but he knew that to complete his dream would satisfy all his needs and wants.
The large flock of well trained birds had leapt off of the nest now, and soared towards the sunset. He was eagerly about to follow when he looked down, far, far down into the depths below. He was essentially terrified of nearly anything presenting the nearest amount of danger; it was his side effect to not exploring the world.
He knew that he had to.
He clamped hard on the edge of the nest with his claws, and jumped as far and hard as he could. He hastily spread his wings, the makeshift one holding steadily. But he felt his heart sink: he was rapidly falling into the pits below.
Panic seized his everything. He started to think irrational thoughts, but shoved them away and spread harder, feeling the improvised wing tear in his skin, but he held steadfastly, not letting go of his dreams. With that, he turned his dive bomb into a dazzling, blurring, zooming bullet at the clouds.
He went faster and further than his family could ever hope for; he had gone higher than the clouds, and now could see the beautiful world beneath him. It looked glorious, seeing sights he had never seen before.
Pure joy and freedom overridden lack of experience and training, and he soon moved like any flying creature he had seen, the finest he had ever seen. It was like heaven to him; he promised to the sky that he would make it, and he did! Even if he had died.
With that, his hay-wing had torn itself completely from the bird’s bloody side, leaving the bird time to gasp and feel pain before suddenly shooting back downwards.
He was scared at first, but he had completed his dream. He had conquered his fear and lack of experience. He conquered his every weakness just for a little bit of flight time. He got what he wished, and was content.
He had fallen beneath the clouds now, and could see his family returning home from their daily patrolling. The bird was not sure if he could feel anymore joyful after what had happened, but his spirits were lifted just as high as he had flown; his family did care. He could see his mother weeping, he could see his father trying to change direction and momentum just to catch his little boy.
But he did not hear his father yell to him, nor did he not feel any pain as his body planted on a stick.
The young bird was already gone.
Content, joyful, complete, and peaceful.
The end.
Once upon a time, there lived a bird family, nesting high above the ground of a jungle. Their home rested on a rather large branch, well above danger and worry. The family, each day, would take off as one, taking flight into the sky. But one day, the mother had laid another egg. This one shaped oddly.
It took weeks for it to hatch, and when it did, a young bird was born. Perhaps the egg had taken damage prior to hatching, because this bird was disfigured; his left wing was missing, leaving a feathery stump in its place.
This was strange and disappointing; but still, the birds migrated together, even the children, for flights, leaving
the broken bird to stare at their retreating forms. He imagined the rush of the wind flowing over them, making them feel free. It grew apparent that each day, he was doomed to nothing. Just nothing. And that was the bird’s worst nightmare.
He was a frail bird to start; sad, thin, out of shape, alone. The bleakness increased each day the more they left. It seemed they hardly cared so as long as they could do it themselves. The crushing weight of it all nearly made him give up, but he had one thing that he thought made him special: Hope.
So it was each day, for weeks on end, that he would look at his stump and his family, waiting for a wing to magically appear, settling the sad things he went through daily. But it never happened, even after another week.
One day, an Owl came to visit his nest. It was a mean thing, staring at him with disgust. He ridiculed the young bird, saying that he was worthless and without purpose. He did it to the point that the bird cried, unrestrained, hard tears. The Owl had smiled and flew away.
The next day, the bird stared at the sky and clouds and heavens and said that he would fly into them, even if he died he would. It was all he ever wanted, all he needed.
It had gotten to the point where his family would treat him like he wasn’t there; they’d eat, laugh, play games, but leave him in the shadows. It just seemed he was never meant to fit in, either.
He realized that he would only have more pain the more nothing happened. It was time to take action. His family flew again far away from the nest, leaving him once again alone. He looked at the nest and found some sticks and hay. He was suddenly afraid, afraid of the pain it would cause.
But he summoned his courage and painfully sowed the hay into his stump with the stick. Blood trickled a little, but he had done it. It looked almost every bit of a real wing, the tool that was the key to joy.
He waited until his family had returned, and the next day when they were about to take off. He knew he had no training for flight, no muscle exercised, little aerodynamics on his body, and was barely fed ( he had ignored
the food before him ), but he knew that to complete his dream would satisfy all his needs and wants.
The large flock of well trained birds had leapt off of the nest now, and soared towards the sunset. He was eagerly about to follow when he looked down, far, far down into the depths below. He was essentially terrified of nearly anything presenting the nearest amount of danger; it was his side effect to not exploring the world.
He knew that he had to.
He clamped hard on the edge of the nest with his claws, and jumped as far and hard as he could. He hastily spread his wings, the makeshift one holding steadily. But he felt his heart sink: he was rapidly falling into the pits below.
Panic seized his everything. He started to think irrational thoughts, but shoved them away and spread harder, feeling the improvised wing tear in his skin, but he held steadfastly, not letting go of his dreams. With that, he turned his dive bomb into a dazzling, blurring, zooming bullet at the clouds.
He went faster and further than his family could ever hope for; he had gone higher than the clouds, and now could see the beautiful world beneath him. It looked glorious, seeing sights he had never seen before.
Pure joy and freedom overridden lack of experience and training, and he soon moved like any flying creature he had seen, the finest he had ever seen. It was like heaven to him; he promised to the sky that he would make it, and he did! Even if he had died.
With that, his hay-wing had torn itself completely from the bird’s bloody side, leaving the bird time to gasp and feel pain before suddenly shooting back downwards.
He was scared at first, but he had completed his dream. He had conquered his fear and lack of experience. He conquered his every weakness just for a little bit of flight time. He got what he wished, and was content.
He had fallen beneath the clouds now, and could see his family returning home from their daily patrolling. The bird was not sure if he could feel anymore joyful after what had happened, but his spirits were lifted just as high as he had flown; his family did care. He could see his mother weeping, he could see his father trying to change direction and momentum just to catch his little boy.
But he did not hear his father yell to him, nor did he not feel any pain as his body planted on a stick.
The young bird was already gone.
Content, joyful, complete, and peaceful.
The end.
I had to post this for my piece of mind--- I'd want this story to be available at all time :>