WINGS


Flute wanted to keep her wings.  She had let them grow further into maturation than most others had.  Her peers were reaching the point in their lives in which it was appropriate for wings to be shed, but Flute would not adhere.
She wanted to keep her wings.
This difference, of course, was noticeable as she strutted the great appendages through the halls of school.  Many of the students would tease Flute or snicker when her back was turned.  “There’s no point,” they’d say.  “It’s not like she can fly with those anyway.”  Her wings, like everyone’s, only extended about two feet from her body and did not have a height that reached further than the arch of her back.
Flute ignored them.  Though she wouldn’t say it out loud, she was determined to prove them wrong.  She would fly.

There was no wind to make this winter night more abrasive than the season itself had already.  For now, the snow had ceased falling, having settled cleanly over every visible surface and bore the likeness of a wedding cake before the first cut.  Flute’s rubber boot sliced into the damp snow as she trekked her way across the untouched lawn to the curb where her father’s car was parked.  Slipping at first and having to try many times, she climbed to the hood of the car and stood with wobbling legs.  
The street she lived on was desolate.  Smoke snaked from chimneys and escaped into the orange glow of a cloud-ridden winter sky.  Flute closed her eyes.  She focused every thought into the wide, feathered wings that erupted from her shoulder blades, their whiteness was unmatched even by the immaculate snow.  She steadied her breathing and bent her knees to leap, expecting to at least glide gracefully onto the street below, but instead, her foot slipped out from under her and she fell off the car.
“Careful there!” a boy said, fallen backwards with Flute in his arms.
“Harp?  What are you doing here?” Flute’s face had already been pink from the cold, but turned redder as she removed herself from the boy’s rescue, “I didn’t even see you coming.”
“Well, I showed up and you had your eyes closed.  Then you fell, so I caught you.”  He stood and brushed the snow from his jeans, then joined Flute beside the car.
“Thanks.  You know, for catching me,” she averted her eyes from his, but he caught her chin on his finger and turned her back to meet his gaze.  His hand felt warm on her face, despite the lack of gloves or mittens, and her face heated red.  He leaned closer, until they were breathing the same space of air.  She took a step away from him.
“Anyway, I’m busy.  I’m going to fly tonight,” and she started walking across the street and into a shrouded conglomerate of trees.
“Flute, wait!  You know you can’t fly, our wings aren’t built for that sort of thing,” he started after her, into the dark shade.
“They have to have some sort of purpose,” she shouted back, still trudging through the woods, “and what would you know?  You’ve already shed yours.”
Harp pursed his lips, having no words to retort.  He tried to follow the sound of her feet dragging through the snow, but it was dark and she was in no mood to wait for him.  He pursued, not wanting to lose track of her and worrying of what she would do.
Flute emerged from the other side of the short wood and came to the hill she sought.  The drop was a steep one and it led into more forest that seemed even darker than the last with its distance and snow-covered treetops.  The fall was a lethal distance away.  She closed her eyes at the edge of it and focused solely on her task.  She would fly.  
Harp found his way to the top of the hill just as Flute was sprinting to the edge.  He darted after her just as she leapt and flung herself from the hill.  Her wings budged slightly and completed no more than half a flap now that she was in mid-air.  Her leap had taken her several feet, but her head began to pull downward and she faced her demise below her.  
A warmth came to her hand.  Harp had grabbed hold of it.  He had let his heavy coat slip from his arms and Flute’s eyes widened when she saw two magnificent feathery wings extended from his back.  They glistened gold before the subtle glow of a winter sky.  It was when they began to soar higher, rather than continue to fall, that she noticed that her wings had also grown in stature.  They, like his, were sweeping rows of feathers that daringly braved the tug of gravity.  Flute reveled in the feeling of the cold wind rushing against her face and the warmth of Harp’s fingers intertwined with hers.  She was flying at last.
While the two began to drift closer to the ground, Flute pulled herself nearer to Harp by the lock of their hands.  She wrapped the other arm behind his neck and brought them face to face, both pink with cold and tenderness.  She pressed her lips to his.  As they kissed, their feathers began to fall apart from each other, until all were severed and scattered into the pure white of the snow.