They’re just ordinary birds, Mother told me. Which sounded much better than being an ordinary girl. So I dug in the dirt for ants and beetles and pinched them with beak-like fingers, cracking shells and thoraxes. I drummed on tree trunks tap-tap, tap-tap-tap, unbothered when my nails split against bark. I poked the short, fat tongue from my mouth, willing it to grow long and sticky enough to wrap around my skull.
It took weeks to perfect my wings, covering a dirty pink kite with careful rows of construction paper. I laid the crossbar over my shoulders, tied the tails to my wrists and flew—down the stairs and through the living room and around the yard. Different than before. Changed.
That February I climbed out my window and perched on the roof, letting the wind ruffle my black-scalloped plumage, showing the majesty of my spotted belly.
Get down from there, Mother’s shrill human voice screamed from below. I flashed the bright streak of marigold on the underside of my feathers and soared, riding the crisp February breeze.
When my bird bones splintered against hard-packed earth the world silenced, just for a moment. My friends hopped toward me, curious heads cocked, pride shining in glassy black eyes.
I hope you learned your lesson, Mother said as she dusted dirt from my cheeks with trembling hands. You’re not a goddamn bird. I smiled up at her, knowing she was wrong. Even Northern Flickers got broken wings.
Ashleigh Adams is creative director and fiction writer. She tends to write about messy and complex female characters because she is one. Her words are featured or forthcoming in Bath Flash Fiction, Flash Fiction Magazine, and After Happy Hour Review, among others. Find her on Bluesky: @ashdoeswords
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