Feathers, Staircases and other such things
Hello, I have just joined the blog, I do not have much experience blogging so please don't be too harsh. I will leave it up to you to figure my identity out, if you don't already know who I am; it isn't very difficult. I hope you like this story, I wrote it about a year ago and I've decided to share it, it is quite peculiar but I hope it doesn't leave something wanting in its wake, although it probably does.
The pigeon walked with grace, unlike most other pigeons. Its coat was a gradient of metallic blue and purple and was almost luminescent in the rays of the ever-boiling sphere of light known as the sun. Was it so surprising, that soon it spread its wings, as birds do? Then, there, the small thing drifted, simply radiant, there the feather drifted, away and away! There were all sorts of hues, beautiful, magnificent, peculiar.. It was carried in the wind, darting and swaying this way and that, as if it had a mind of its own and the wind wasn’t guiding it. What no one could conceive was that the little thing did have a mind of its own, and even though the wind was its guide, it chose where to go. Down alleyways and along quaint little shops it went. Breathing in the cool, crisp scent of the wind. The only thing that was most interesting was the old, rickety, almost senile staircase. The beautiful oak had many stories to tell. Of footprints of a mother that had hurried down the stairs to send her child to hospital. Of footprints of a boy who had been sneaking down to steal a cookie and wanted no one to hear his little scampering feet, and had trod down so quietly it had tickled the stairs. Oh, the stories the stairwell could tell! If it was graced with lips, such as us humans have, it would have told the little feather all sorts of stories, from hurt to joy, from anger to humility. Though, even if the staircase did have a mouth the feather wouldn’t hear those stories, because, although the feather decided the staircase was wonderful, it was so very impatient. So the staircase was unbelievably melancholy, as it so wished to spread its gossip and wanted the feather to stay with it. If the feather knew that, it would have none of that. As snobbish as it sounded, the feather thought itself so very distinguished in all its finery of colours, that the staircase wasn’t worth staying with. Even though words were not spoken, the stairs thought the feather was so incredibly marvellous, that if the staircase had eyes, it would weep so. Weep because the feather had told the wind it wanted to explore, to see the lake and the trees and was going to be far away from the staircase. The wind embraced the feather tightly, as if it wouldn’t stand losing it, and lifted the feather above the trees and across the lake. Being unimaginably beautiful, the lake made the feather feel rather envious, and it wished to be all too unkind towards it, but the feather had neither mouth nor voice. Quite unexpectedly, the storm clouds decided it was exceedingly resentful of this impertinent wind, impertinent for the wind hadn’t introduced the lovely feather, and had keep this beauty all to itself. In fact, the storm clouds felt so much that the wind was loath that it decided to try to separate the two with an almost cataclysmic storm. Through the veil of downpour, the wind kept itself as close to the feather as it could, shielding it from the vile clouds, but to no avail, the feather was drenched, and the wind was all too afraid to damage the feather. So the kind wind put the feather down with such gentleness; the feather couldn’t bear to leave it. Even so, the feather found itself quite content as it awoke, the next morning. It was happy to be on the staircase once again.
The pigeon walked with grace, unlike most other pigeons. Its coat was a gradient of metallic blue and purple and was almost luminescent in the rays of the ever-boiling sphere of light known as the sun. Was it so surprising, that soon it spread its wings, as birds do? Then, there, the small thing drifted, simply radiant, there the feather drifted, away and away! There were all sorts of hues, beautiful, magnificent, peculiar.. It was carried in the wind, darting and swaying this way and that, as if it had a mind of its own and the wind wasn’t guiding it. What no one could conceive was that the little thing did have a mind of its own, and even though the wind was its guide, it chose where to go. Down alleyways and along quaint little shops it went. Breathing in the cool, crisp scent of the wind. The only thing that was most interesting was the old, rickety, almost senile staircase. The beautiful oak had many stories to tell. Of footprints of a mother that had hurried down the stairs to send her child to hospital. Of footprints of a boy who had been sneaking down to steal a cookie and wanted no one to hear his little scampering feet, and had trod down so quietly it had tickled the stairs. Oh, the stories the stairwell could tell! If it was graced with lips, such as us humans have, it would have told the little feather all sorts of stories, from hurt to joy, from anger to humility. Though, even if the staircase did have a mouth the feather wouldn’t hear those stories, because, although the feather decided the staircase was wonderful, it was so very impatient. So the staircase was unbelievably melancholy, as it so wished to spread its gossip and wanted the feather to stay with it. If the feather knew that, it would have none of that. As snobbish as it sounded, the feather thought itself so very distinguished in all its finery of colours, that the staircase wasn’t worth staying with. Even though words were not spoken, the stairs thought the feather was so incredibly marvellous, that if the staircase had eyes, it would weep so. Weep because the feather had told the wind it wanted to explore, to see the lake and the trees and was going to be far away from the staircase. The wind embraced the feather tightly, as if it wouldn’t stand losing it, and lifted the feather above the trees and across the lake. Being unimaginably beautiful, the lake made the feather feel rather envious, and it wished to be all too unkind towards it, but the feather had neither mouth nor voice. Quite unexpectedly, the storm clouds decided it was exceedingly resentful of this impertinent wind, impertinent for the wind hadn’t introduced the lovely feather, and had keep this beauty all to itself. In fact, the storm clouds felt so much that the wind was loath that it decided to try to separate the two with an almost cataclysmic storm. Through the veil of downpour, the wind kept itself as close to the feather as it could, shielding it from the vile clouds, but to no avail, the feather was drenched, and the wind was all too afraid to damage the feather. So the kind wind put the feather down with such gentleness; the feather couldn’t bear to leave it. Even so, the feather found itself quite content as it awoke, the next morning. It was happy to be on the staircase once again.
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