#PennedPossibilities 1037 — MC POV: Tell us about a time you didn’t feel “ready” for something.
… I mean, look at these wings. [She stretches them out. The checkered feather pattern opens up into feathers that lighten from evening blue at the base to cloud white at the tips.] They're beautiful. They're shaped like an owl's and I can fly swiftly, surely, silently, stealthfully. I'm a day angel, and some of us learn to fly before they can walk. Me? [Laughs, embarrassed.] I was already ten. All the girls in school made fun of me because I still couldn't fly. Our city is built into cliffs and in the branches of huge home trees, so I had to climb constantly to do anything, which made me strong of limb; the boys knew to stay away from me because I could fight back if they teased me.
It wasn't that I didn't want to fly, I did. The idea simply frightened me. I had this thought in my head that if I jumped off a cliff, I'd fall, I'd break—I'd die. I woke up screaming from night terrors, falling. I fancied I knew what breaking felt like.
That didn't mean I hated my wings.
No! I loved them! I'd often approach the cliffs, but not look over or down. I'd stretch them out. Same on the bare branches of home trees. Sometimes I'd smell the salt air blowing in from the coast. My heart would race and I'd unfurl them to their greatest span feeling my tendons and muscles tug and pull gloriously, feel the breeze surge through my feathers, listen to them hum as they buzzed. The music of life. Surely. It was—
Joy.
I could stand there like that and lose track of time. I was flying, but not really. I was never ready. I would never allow myself to lift my feet from solid ground, but otherwise I would stand there. Oblivious. Entranced.
One day my uncle shoved me off the cliff.
[Author retains copyright (c)2026 R.S.]
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