As the elephant king lay dying, struck silent by his pain, able only to breathe shattered breaths, his mind thought its last thoughts.
The swallow was a happy bird, but also somewhat superior. Nothing brought her joy the way flying did. Slicing through the clouds and flicking the air with the perfect points of her tail. She believed that birds were the supreme creatures of the world. Because they could fly. Some insects could fly as well, of course. But birds could fly higher, faster, and farther than any insect.
This week’s story will be posted soon. This is the anniversary post for Storyfeather’s sixth year!
The Year of Definitions is done! That was the theme for Storyfeather Year Six.
“Alas! We are doomed to die as caterpillars, never having become butterflies.” Lickspittle shook his head. He gazed up and shook several fists at the sky.
Sobersides sighed gravely. “Perhaps tomorrow morning.”
“Is it true that you once beat Hare in a foot race? It can’t be true. But is it true?”
He continued walking along as the little black bird flapped around him. She landed on a nearby branch.
“I’ve heard that you’ve seen the world from above as a bird does when she’s flying. Is that true? How did you do it? It can’t be true. But is it true?”
Tortoise sighed again. But he also smiled.
Starling was young and eager. But she was also persistent. And she was also perceptive. She noted the smile on Tortoise’s face. She understood what it meant. He had expected her to grow tired of asking him the same questions day after day. But she had done so for five days now. Perhaps he would deem her worthy enough to deserve some answers to her questions.
The starry-eyed youth named Carson cast his gaze at the full moon. His father had just cursed it, or rather, he had cursed those who dwelt upon it.
“A storm is coming,” his father said, gazing up at the low and looming clouds. “A storm with high winds.”
Yet another storm, the fourth one in as many days.
“Soon it will storm day and night,” his father said. And then he raised a fist to the full bright moon and shook it.
Rare are they who can by their very presence bring about the emergence of the fantastic from the most common of things and the most mundane of people.
So rare indeed, that most towns only had one such person, only one whose speech inspired the emergence of energy from lethargy, whose gaze transformed ugliness to beauty, and whose touch could change a blunder into a wonder.
Feodora was one such person.
A person known throughout the realm as a fantasticator.
This week’s story will be posted soon. This is the anniversary post for Storyfeather’s fifth year!
The Year of S.T.E.A.M. is done! That was the theme for Storyfeather Year Five. Science. Technology. Engineering. Arts. Mathematics. Year Five’s stories aimed to center around one of the aforementioned elements. It was quite the challenge.
Also a challenge, keeping the bar for the artwork as high as I could manage after the visual upgrade the site received in Year Four.
Thank you to everyone who read even a single story. And if you liked or commented, thank you again. Thank you for your time and interest, and for being a part of Storyfeather, especially Year Five.
A lot happened in the fifth year stories. A cast and crew of middle school students put on an original play about cosmic heroes and deadly aliens. A malfunctioning beauty product gave whole new meaning to the term “vanishing cream.” An explorer got lost in a spatiotemporal anomaly that was once the treasure vault of an alien pirate. And a woman started turning into a cartoon…
I’ve written over 250 stories now. And I’ve produced 52 podcast episodes (one for each story from Year One). Year Five was a (sometimes delirious) struggle, but well worth it. Storytelling is still my true love, still my destiny, still my path.
Year Six is on the horizon. Here’s to seeing what stories will brew. I hope you’ll come along.
I have stories to tell you.
I could not see the edge of the knife, but I felt the promised bite of the blade at the base of my tail. Courage is a strange thing. For when you think you have it, you are wrong. And when you think you don’t have it…you are wrong.
When I stepped ever-so-carefully onto that dais where the Ritual was to begin, I thought I had all the courage I would need.
I was wrong.
“How can we know for certain what the truth is, unless we seek to find it?” an aphid named Quintillion argued.
She kept her wings respectfully folded as she stood before the Council of Grand Numerators. But she dared to sweep aside the train of glittering white filaments that plumed from her back, a particular characteristic of her tribe.
“They came out of the primordium, just as we did,” she said. “They are not beasts. They are an intelligent species. They are potential companions.”