Fiction
Avian Transmutation
I’m perched in an unfamiliar room on a narrow canopy above a bed.
Where my hands jazzed, talons grip.
My nose is curved to a lacquered beak.
My reduction from human size was fated in my name: Etoile Wren Tanaka Boots. Granted by my parents–nature-loving, bird-watchers–they bestowed a kestrel to my brother, a middlelark to my sister, and a wren to myself. Three, destined to leave the nest in a frenzied flurry of flaps, one day.
I perch, conducting outer stillness, a delicate balance. For within myself, blood weaves and ducks, branching through hollow bones to keep me alive. The movement is accompanied by a deafening sound that I can only observe in silence. A roaring of a red lake, damned between layers of skin.
For an eternity, I’m still, listening to the mechanisms of my existence. Suddenly, my attention is shattered as I hear human laughter downstairs. Though perhaps it is crying, as crying and laughter often hold hands.
Curiosity piqued. I go to identify this crying-laughter. I jump ungracefully off the ledge and onto the floor–still uncomfortable with the thought of flight. I pitter-patter across the room to the edge of the stairs, hip-hop down each rung.
Before reaching the bottom rung, the source of the laughter and crying is unveiled, a small party. A congregation for which I had missed an invite.
At the center of the party, and the noise, was a woman with a greying complexion, both in skin and hair. What beige she had bled into the leather sofa upon which she was draped.
For a moment, she stilled and quieted. As she lay on the couch, she stared down at two small birds in front of her. She began to cry. First quietly and seemingly to herself, small shakes in her shoulders. The movement startled the birds, who hopped back in response. Now observing this change, the woman lost breath and her whimpers turned to sobs, and her whole body began to shake and tremble violently. This disturbed the birds greatly, and they further retreated.
Continuing to shake, the woman reached her trembling hands into a small bag that lay on her stomach. She produced a small slice of bread. She looked again at the birds. The birds came closer with anticipation. I felt my body approach in unison.
In one swift toss, she released the bread. They swooped aerially, while I rushed my legs forward, breaking bread. Our movement seemed to amuse the woman, whose sobs were quelled and rapidly mutated to erratic laughter. Through the giggles, I ate. I hadn’t realized before that I was hungry.
I felt my stomach expand with satiation. Full, I hopped away from the party and towards the door of the house. My wings were cramping from lack of use. I promptly decided that I would attempt a flight outside.
I waited until I reached the edge of the doorway to prepare myself for flight. Arms, no, wings outstretched, I began to flap. I waved vigorously. Up and down, the effort was usually fruitless. However, this time, I could feel my talons drag from the ground, lifting—
A rush of pure excitement, anticipating flight and departure.
But I was wrenched back down instantly.
I looked down to see what had grabbed me out of the sky, and saw only myself.
My talons were expanding to fill more life, fattening and smoothing. Within an instant, I had humanoid feet and felt myself rise as my body expanded and fleshed. The injection of life and space came at a cost, as I was struck with the pain of ripping muscle and bone.
Now, much larger, I stood still for a second with my arms still outstretched and now colliding with the door frame. With the possibility of flight weighed down by my refound humanity, I brought my arms down and turned back to face inside and towards the woman on the sofa.
Still crying to herself quietly, the woman had stopped feeding the birds. As I approached her carefully, I felt my stomach contract with fear. Although I lacked understanding of the woman,I realized I was afraid of the woman. I was afraid for the woman. Now, against my best judgment, I sat down on the beige couch with her. With no better consolation in mind, I began to quietly,
Singin’ don't worry 'bout a thing
Her sobs became the beat of my song and I continued with hummed sobbing, Bob Marley’s words continuing to remind me and her and us that
Where my hands jazzed, talons grip.
My nose is curved to a lacquered beak.
My reduction from human size was fated in my name: Etoile Wren Tanaka Boots. Granted by my parents–nature-loving, bird-watchers–they bestowed a kestrel to my brother, a middlelark to my sister, and a wren to myself. Three, destined to leave the nest in a frenzied flurry of flaps, one day.
I perch, conducting outer stillness, a delicate balance. For within myself, blood weaves and ducks, branching through hollow bones to keep me alive. The movement is accompanied by a deafening sound that I can only observe in silence. A roaring of a red lake, damned between layers of skin.
For an eternity, I’m still, listening to the mechanisms of my existence. Suddenly, my attention is shattered as I hear human laughter downstairs. Though perhaps it is crying, as crying and laughter often hold hands.
Curiosity piqued. I go to identify this crying-laughter. I jump ungracefully off the ledge and onto the floor–still uncomfortable with the thought of flight. I pitter-patter across the room to the edge of the stairs, hip-hop down each rung.
Before reaching the bottom rung, the source of the laughter and crying is unveiled, a small party. A congregation for which I had missed an invite.
At the center of the party, and the noise, was a woman with a greying complexion, both in skin and hair. What beige she had bled into the leather sofa upon which she was draped.
For a moment, she stilled and quieted. As she lay on the couch, she stared down at two small birds in front of her. She began to cry. First quietly and seemingly to herself, small shakes in her shoulders. The movement startled the birds, who hopped back in response. Now observing this change, the woman lost breath and her whimpers turned to sobs, and her whole body began to shake and tremble violently. This disturbed the birds greatly, and they further retreated.
Continuing to shake, the woman reached her trembling hands into a small bag that lay on her stomach. She produced a small slice of bread. She looked again at the birds. The birds came closer with anticipation. I felt my body approach in unison.
In one swift toss, she released the bread. They swooped aerially, while I rushed my legs forward, breaking bread. Our movement seemed to amuse the woman, whose sobs were quelled and rapidly mutated to erratic laughter. Through the giggles, I ate. I hadn’t realized before that I was hungry.
I felt my stomach expand with satiation. Full, I hopped away from the party and towards the door of the house. My wings were cramping from lack of use. I promptly decided that I would attempt a flight outside.
I waited until I reached the edge of the doorway to prepare myself for flight. Arms, no, wings outstretched, I began to flap. I waved vigorously. Up and down, the effort was usually fruitless. However, this time, I could feel my talons drag from the ground, lifting—
A rush of pure excitement, anticipating flight and departure.
But I was wrenched back down instantly.
I looked down to see what had grabbed me out of the sky, and saw only myself.
My talons were expanding to fill more life, fattening and smoothing. Within an instant, I had humanoid feet and felt myself rise as my body expanded and fleshed. The injection of life and space came at a cost, as I was struck with the pain of ripping muscle and bone.
Now, much larger, I stood still for a second with my arms still outstretched and now colliding with the door frame. With the possibility of flight weighed down by my refound humanity, I brought my arms down and turned back to face inside and towards the woman on the sofa.
Still crying to herself quietly, the woman had stopped feeding the birds. As I approached her carefully, I felt my stomach contract with fear. Although I lacked understanding of the woman,I realized I was afraid of the woman. I was afraid for the woman. Now, against my best judgment, I sat down on the beige couch with her. With no better consolation in mind, I began to quietly,
Singin’ don't worry 'bout a thing
Her sobs became the beat of my song and I continued with hummed sobbing, Bob Marley’s words continuing to remind me and her and us that
every little thing gonna be alright.