Description from original post (created 2014-06-27 07:36):
THE CROW WITH NO WINGSBorn just like any ordinary crow, this crow did not know how to fly. He had seen his own parents ripped from the air by hawks and some other wicked beast, leaving him traumatised, distraught and paralysed with fear. He nestled in his home of twigs high amongst the clouds for some time, but grew hungry. The crow started to nibble at his feathers. Then he began to gnaw at his skin and then, finally, he began to chew at his own wings.
He stopped.
His beak was red, red with blood. He was hungry, but he knew this was not the solution. He looked up from his nest into the deep, endless sky. Nothing. He looked down beneath the clouds upon the forest below. It was a cold, dead forest. Cold like the crow's skin, dead like the crow's wings. They were bleeding horrifically and the blood began to seep through the twigs of he crow's nest and down through the clouds.
He would die in very spot he was born.
He looked up at the sun, burning with a blinding light. He looked into it long and hard, his eyes growing bloodshot, sun bleached and soft, melting into his head. His spirit had left the world, but his carcass remained.
After many long hours of burning in the sun, the flesh on the crow's wings had shriveled to tiny, weathered bits of leather, leaving nothing but the bone and a few dusty feathers.
Suddenly, the moment the sun had risen and dawn had broke, a magnificant blaze burst out from where the crow's eyes once were, laying a ghastly orange light upon every cloud in the sky before him. He stumbled up, impaling his bony feet into his nest. He looked down once more at the forest, then looked far out into the horizon at the sun. Taking in a breath of air, exhaling a mouth of smoke, he shifted his feet, spread his fleshless wings back and exploded from his nest, burning twigs scattering in the sky and falling through the clouds just as his own blood had.
The crow was no longer who he once was, but he was free.
