FA+
Shop
211
Views
Views
2
Favorites
Favorites
Category
Poetry / General Furry Art
Species Avian (Other)
Size 50 x 50
File Size 4 kB
Report this content
More from marked
A short prose poem on what it takes an anthropomorphic bird to fly.
----
Too sore.
Too sore to lift a single feather. Sitting down, eyes fluttering close and open, brain too tired to think about anything. Arms burning, legs like jelly, panting from exhaustion. Barely able to move after spending all day in the sweltering sun. Light frame slumped over in the back seat of the car. Sixteen is the hardest age in life, and this choice, this sacrifice, the hardest of all.
One-hour run before breakfast, heart pumping with the rush of speed, pushing ever faster, ever stronger. A handful of trail mix for energy, berries, acorns and seeds a sweet melody on the tongue. Next, track and field, wind on feathery coat with each hurdle. Running, leaping, bonding, each footfall a spring towards heaven. Pole vault in hand, now connecting, now catapulting through air; the view as at the top of the arc: a thrill. A midday dunk to cool down, running water over wings, beak and breast, spraying outwards as preened feathers shake. An afternoon spent on the volleyball court, keen eyes wide as the ball spikes in the air friend-ward. Always careful to avoid teammates; hollow bones break easily in contact sports
All of these are done in groups. Mice, pigs, dear, rams, chickens, even a fox or two, running in a stamped. Voles, skunks, bulls, eagles, all bounding over hurdles in a madding rush. Ducks, badgers, otters and horses swimming along side. But friends among them are hard to come by. All the time in the world hardly seems enough for the training, that all important task. Hardly any time to make friends with all the others on the track or in the pool. And those who are friends... their not the same. They can never know. Covered in fur, hide or scales, they'll never know the great dream, never know what drives this pain, this sacrifice.
The other birds are even worse. They have either never shared the dream, or have given it up long ago. They parade in their fancy clothing, sleeved shirts, well made pants, meticulously clipped and trimmed wings. They mutter and they sneer, they say flyers are bare-backed, unkempt, a show-off, high-school drop outs, a losers. They say the only place one will every find a job is the circus.
They ask: "why do you bother learning to fly on your own in a world of planes and helicopters? Why give over your life when no one needs you to fly?" Sure, throughout history, bird have messangers, ambasadors, delivery-men, but why bother with flight in the age of telegram, much less telephone or computer? Flight takes a dedication rivaled only by olympiads; worse, because the inconveniences of flight feathers interferes with the modern way of life. No shirts, no phone, no keyboarding; long primaries making any sort of fine finger movements unwieldy at beast, and painful at worst.
You know the reason why:
On weekends, hiking in the hills a few miles out of town. There is a place called where the other flyers gather. Birds of all species and skill levels. Every time in the past, gliding from the top down to the foot of the hill was enough. This time will be different.The warm wind nearly always gusts up the sheer cliff face. Staring down the rockly cliff, considering just how far and hard the ground is, just how precious life and body really are.
Nearby, the others are already jumping, some with running starts and flapping wings to climb higher, some diving recklessly earthwards before pulling up gracefully. Eyes closed now, deep breath taken, and then tip forward, head tilting down to the ground far below. Wind rushing up to meet feather, and then, miraculously, after all the hard work, the ache, the pain, the discipline, the sacrifice, it all works. All coming together in one moment to soar.
To soar.
----
I wanted to put into words how disappointing it is to see many anthro avians depicted as unable to fly, yet try to reconcile that with the physical improbability of something human sized taking wing. My compromise is that it can be done, but it takes great effort, just like many things do in real life. Hope you enjoyed.
----
Too sore.
Too sore to lift a single feather. Sitting down, eyes fluttering close and open, brain too tired to think about anything. Arms burning, legs like jelly, panting from exhaustion. Barely able to move after spending all day in the sweltering sun. Light frame slumped over in the back seat of the car. Sixteen is the hardest age in life, and this choice, this sacrifice, the hardest of all.
One-hour run before breakfast, heart pumping with the rush of speed, pushing ever faster, ever stronger. A handful of trail mix for energy, berries, acorns and seeds a sweet melody on the tongue. Next, track and field, wind on feathery coat with each hurdle. Running, leaping, bonding, each footfall a spring towards heaven. Pole vault in hand, now connecting, now catapulting through air; the view as at the top of the arc: a thrill. A midday dunk to cool down, running water over wings, beak and breast, spraying outwards as preened feathers shake. An afternoon spent on the volleyball court, keen eyes wide as the ball spikes in the air friend-ward. Always careful to avoid teammates; hollow bones break easily in contact sports
All of these are done in groups. Mice, pigs, dear, rams, chickens, even a fox or two, running in a stamped. Voles, skunks, bulls, eagles, all bounding over hurdles in a madding rush. Ducks, badgers, otters and horses swimming along side. But friends among them are hard to come by. All the time in the world hardly seems enough for the training, that all important task. Hardly any time to make friends with all the others on the track or in the pool. And those who are friends... their not the same. They can never know. Covered in fur, hide or scales, they'll never know the great dream, never know what drives this pain, this sacrifice.
The other birds are even worse. They have either never shared the dream, or have given it up long ago. They parade in their fancy clothing, sleeved shirts, well made pants, meticulously clipped and trimmed wings. They mutter and they sneer, they say flyers are bare-backed, unkempt, a show-off, high-school drop outs, a losers. They say the only place one will every find a job is the circus.
They ask: "why do you bother learning to fly on your own in a world of planes and helicopters? Why give over your life when no one needs you to fly?" Sure, throughout history, bird have messangers, ambasadors, delivery-men, but why bother with flight in the age of telegram, much less telephone or computer? Flight takes a dedication rivaled only by olympiads; worse, because the inconveniences of flight feathers interferes with the modern way of life. No shirts, no phone, no keyboarding; long primaries making any sort of fine finger movements unwieldy at beast, and painful at worst.
You know the reason why:
On weekends, hiking in the hills a few miles out of town. There is a place called where the other flyers gather. Birds of all species and skill levels. Every time in the past, gliding from the top down to the foot of the hill was enough. This time will be different.The warm wind nearly always gusts up the sheer cliff face. Staring down the rockly cliff, considering just how far and hard the ground is, just how precious life and body really are.
Nearby, the others are already jumping, some with running starts and flapping wings to climb higher, some diving recklessly earthwards before pulling up gracefully. Eyes closed now, deep breath taken, and then tip forward, head tilting down to the ground far below. Wind rushing up to meet feather, and then, miraculously, after all the hard work, the ache, the pain, the discipline, the sacrifice, it all works. All coming together in one moment to soar.
To soar.
----
I wanted to put into words how disappointing it is to see many anthro avians depicted as unable to fly, yet try to reconcile that with the physical improbability of something human sized taking wing. My compromise is that it can be done, but it takes great effort, just like many things do in real life. Hope you enjoyed.
Category Poetry / General Furry Art
Species Avian (Other)
Size 50 x 50px
File Size 4 kB
It was a stirring read, and even thought if might appear as a little too melodramatic to some, I supposed that anyone who's been on an important personal quest with little or no acknowledgement or reassurance from surrounding people would know that the crushing sense of adversity described in your piece is by no means exaggerated(I wouldn't know, personally, but I can project). Beside the direct comparison to the Olympians, most of the problems mentioned in your prose poem could just as well apply to any sportsmen or artists still working in the fields that have been largely automatized in this day and age.
A lot of what this anthem of sorts contains within reminded me of your previously expressed thoughts on the fictional avian peoples, and the way the fundamental anatomic differences are worked into the narrative gives your points added validity for how plausible the public perception of the flight enthusiasts is. In a setting where the need for independent flying is removed by technology, all the flight prerequisite attributes that the bird people posses would be naturally seen as anachronistic atavism, and the avians would be pressured to either cosmetically remove them, or appropriate for decorative purposes - and letting the working, full-sized plumage dictate their fashion choices and social status would definitely not be the first choice for many.
Still, there is a fine dichotomy there, with one side of which requiring immeasurably harder effort to attain: the avians are either superior in their bodily structure, allowing them something the others would have to pay steep fees for, and have their seatbelts for the duration - or they are dainty, fragile creatures with unruly, attention-hungry feather cover that makes the heavily shedding mammalian species seem sanitary by comparison. It's up to the individual to decide which one to be, but the path of less resistance rules by default, like in any other area of life.
With the hardships, lack of acceptance and personal hygiene issues involved, it also wouldn't be too far-fetched to liken the flight-capable or aspiring avians to extreme sports or mountain climbing specialists - the ones that can only be called "amateur" for not being paid for their professional-grade investment in their interest.
Lastly, on the level you mentioned in the afterword, your prose poem does its bit for the cause of rightfully glorifying the bird folk depicted with their full potential unlocked, and it does it nicely. The severe drawbacks mentioned work well as a solemn nod to why the status quo of prevalent flightless ornithomorphs in the fandom and its thereabouts, as well as magnifying the merits of defying the tradition by sacrificing the relative ease of having a character with dextrous hands and the access to the full range of human clothing.
My apologies for the late response; it's been a taxing couple of weeks. A couple of your stories are next in line in my reviewing queue, as of now. Good luck to you in your creative efforts !
A lot of what this anthem of sorts contains within reminded me of your previously expressed thoughts on the fictional avian peoples, and the way the fundamental anatomic differences are worked into the narrative gives your points added validity for how plausible the public perception of the flight enthusiasts is. In a setting where the need for independent flying is removed by technology, all the flight prerequisite attributes that the bird people posses would be naturally seen as anachronistic atavism, and the avians would be pressured to either cosmetically remove them, or appropriate for decorative purposes - and letting the working, full-sized plumage dictate their fashion choices and social status would definitely not be the first choice for many.
Still, there is a fine dichotomy there, with one side of which requiring immeasurably harder effort to attain: the avians are either superior in their bodily structure, allowing them something the others would have to pay steep fees for, and have their seatbelts for the duration - or they are dainty, fragile creatures with unruly, attention-hungry feather cover that makes the heavily shedding mammalian species seem sanitary by comparison. It's up to the individual to decide which one to be, but the path of less resistance rules by default, like in any other area of life.
With the hardships, lack of acceptance and personal hygiene issues involved, it also wouldn't be too far-fetched to liken the flight-capable or aspiring avians to extreme sports or mountain climbing specialists - the ones that can only be called "amateur" for not being paid for their professional-grade investment in their interest.
Lastly, on the level you mentioned in the afterword, your prose poem does its bit for the cause of rightfully glorifying the bird folk depicted with their full potential unlocked, and it does it nicely. The severe drawbacks mentioned work well as a solemn nod to why the status quo of prevalent flightless ornithomorphs in the fandom and its thereabouts, as well as magnifying the merits of defying the tradition by sacrificing the relative ease of having a character with dextrous hands and the access to the full range of human clothing.
My apologies for the late response; it's been a taxing couple of weeks. A couple of your stories are next in line in my reviewing queue, as of now. Good luck to you in your creative efforts !
Inability to concisely express oneself is a regrettable flaw more often than not; the length of a piece of feedback is as valuable as its relevant and gratifying for the creator, but the volume does add up when the verbose comments arrive in large numbers, and ultimately becomes burdensome for the recipient.
Your compliment is humbly appreciated, though.
Since Eka's Portal has some of the stories unavailable here, in the future I will proceed to leave my feedback over there, if you don't mind.
Your compliment is humbly appreciated, though.
Since Eka's Portal has some of the stories unavailable here, in the future I will proceed to leave my feedback over there, if you don't mind.
Comments