And the wings unfurl...

July 20, 2011
By Chanchie GOLD, Trivandrum, Other
Chanchie GOLD, Trivandrum, Other
17 articles 4 photos 26 comments

Favorite Quote:
A writer who writes without zest, without gusto, without fun, without love is only half a writer.
-Ray Bradbury


The child stares out of the window, at the leaves and farther away at the hills. He can hear sounds from the highway. They’re comforting, soothing even though they’re far away. The teacher’s voice cuts through. Staring out the window is not going to fetch you marks, she reprimands, snottily. Tyrant, he silently curses her, wistfully lowering his head and staring at his book.

The letters soon start playing Tag. The PD chases the I trying to find the W. The numbers start doing the foxtrot. The child smiles happily as they jump out of the book and use his desk as a dance floor. The teacher interrupts again.

The child has wings but he does not know. Each day they get clipped just as Flavius wished Caesar’s would. With every sharp word, with every angry red cross, the wings lose a feather.

The child is crippled. Wounded. It starts taking his anger out by going home and playing the violin till his finger tips are raw.

One morning, she hears him. There is music coming out of an empty classroom. She peeks in to see the child playing at a furious pace. Gradually, he slows down and a peaceful smile lights up his face.

She takes him as her student. Slowly, steadily, the feathers grow back. The wings grow, fuller and lighter, than before.

The PD still chases the I, but the child knows that anytime he wishes, he can unfurl his wings, and fly to the distant hill, once just a dream.


The author's comments:
Often, I get scolded for getting lost in my own world during class. That and my dislike for Physics, inspired this article.

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