Work Text:
I stand on top of a snowy mountain in the Antarctic, thinking. We live in a world where people have wings. The wings are an expression of one’s soul. Some people have learned to fly with their wings, however most people cannot. The flightless ones consider the ones who can fly lucky. Some people who can fly consider the ones who cannot fly lucky. I am able to fly. I spread my wings, feeling the cold air going through the feathers. My wings are mostly black, the tips are blood red. There are white spots sprinkled everywhere on my wings, there are also a few very light blue feathers sprinkled in random places. My wings twitch, wanting to soar in the starry night sky. I flap my wings once, then I jump, headfirst, into the unknown. I let myself fall for quite a while feeling the freezing air going past me, the rush of adrenaline making it feel cool instead of freezing. I let out a “whoop” of joy, feeling exhilarated, I opened my wings letting them carry me up, soaring over the frozen expanse of Antarctica.