I watched you burn.
I watched as your multi-hued plumage singed and reduced to grey, dead ash.
I watched powerlessly as your skin, flesh and bone blistered, seared and charred. Before long, a pile of soot and slag was all that remained where you had been.
Then, after some time, the ash heap heaved and you began to emerge from the dust of your death. Young and covered with pin feathers, your plumage isn't what it once was and your wings won't yet carry you to the heights to which you were accustomed. You're eager to fly. Give it time, little one.
No prequels yet. Why not write one?
No sequels yet. Why not write one?
Comments (1 so far!)
I appreciate the message. It's a nice reminder that transformation is painful.
- #3793 Posted 1 year ago
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