An Impasse of Feathers.
there are feathers everywhere but it's fine.
Ryan laughed. It was a strange sound in the empty room, coming from the lips of a boy who didn't even really like to smile. But he couldn't help but laugh as the feathers of the birds tickled his wrists and palms. He didn't know where they'd come from, but they were in his hands and at the foot of his bed, cocking their heads at him in confusion and talking to each other in chirps, trying to figure out how they'd gotten to this strange sort of nest.
He understood their confusion. It was his own house and he still didn't know how he'd gotten there half the time. Sometimes he just couldn't remember how he'd gotten home from the party, if he'd been driven and if someone else had taken off his shoes before tossing a quilt over him on the couch. And then sometimes he wondered how he'd gotten to the impasse of the place where no matter what he did it all yielded the same results and seemed to come from the same place, even if he insisted he had more to offer.
The birds were singing now, he thought. Their chirps had turned into a choir of voices, soft and low in timbre. He was certain they weren't singing words, just notes, and maybe if he found a pen or a pencil or a crayon he'd be able to scribble a few words down on some paper or his jeans or the wall. He wasn't too particular anymore. The words were more selective about coming so he was less selective about how he caught them. Butterflies in jars were always pretty, but sometimes a moth has to go into a light bulb instead.
There were still birds on his hands, feathers falling out and gathering in his lap. He was still laughing, even through his tears from the music, not bothering to look for the pen. There was no point anyway. He couldn't hear the words, just the music. Music was never as elusive as lyrics. He was laughing out loud, laughter to match the tune maybe.
The bedroom door opened and Ryan turned his head, smiling brightly, his teeth showing. "Look, Bren," he whispered, voice high-pitched like a fever, when he saw the boy. "Aren't they pretty, Brendon? They're going to help me write."
The other boy just sighed and counted backward from ten silently. "I'll get the vacuum cleaner," he murmured, disappearing into the hallway.
Confused, Ryan looked down. The birds were gone now. There were still feathers, though. Tiny, down feathers from one of his pillows that was torn open and hanging off the edge of the bed. Ryan couldn't remember how it had gotten there.
"But there were birds there, Brendon, right?" Ryan asked when the other boy returned.
"Sure, Ryan," he mumbled in reply, "there were birds." He turned on the vacuum cleaner as Ryan squeezed his eyes shut and tried to remember how he'd gotten here.
He understood their confusion. It was his own house and he still didn't know how he'd gotten there half the time. Sometimes he just couldn't remember how he'd gotten home from the party, if he'd been driven and if someone else had taken off his shoes before tossing a quilt over him on the couch. And then sometimes he wondered how he'd gotten to the impasse of the place where no matter what he did it all yielded the same results and seemed to come from the same place, even if he insisted he had more to offer.
The birds were singing now, he thought. Their chirps had turned into a choir of voices, soft and low in timbre. He was certain they weren't singing words, just notes, and maybe if he found a pen or a pencil or a crayon he'd be able to scribble a few words down on some paper or his jeans or the wall. He wasn't too particular anymore. The words were more selective about coming so he was less selective about how he caught them. Butterflies in jars were always pretty, but sometimes a moth has to go into a light bulb instead.
There were still birds on his hands, feathers falling out and gathering in his lap. He was still laughing, even through his tears from the music, not bothering to look for the pen. There was no point anyway. He couldn't hear the words, just the music. Music was never as elusive as lyrics. He was laughing out loud, laughter to match the tune maybe.
The bedroom door opened and Ryan turned his head, smiling brightly, his teeth showing. "Look, Bren," he whispered, voice high-pitched like a fever, when he saw the boy. "Aren't they pretty, Brendon? They're going to help me write."
The other boy just sighed and counted backward from ten silently. "I'll get the vacuum cleaner," he murmured, disappearing into the hallway.
Confused, Ryan looked down. The birds were gone now. There were still feathers, though. Tiny, down feathers from one of his pillows that was torn open and hanging off the edge of the bed. Ryan couldn't remember how it had gotten there.
"But there were birds there, Brendon, right?" Ryan asked when the other boy returned.
"Sure, Ryan," he mumbled in reply, "there were birds." He turned on the vacuum cleaner as Ryan squeezed his eyes shut and tried to remember how he'd gotten here.