Fly Away

From this blog. It shows a girl with wings against a bloodstain, implying that it is probably said flying-girl's blood. Gory, but strong. It fits this post.

This story—246 words long; it's what is known as "flash fiction"—is a lipogram, avoiding that glyph which follows "D" in Latin writing distribution. It was truly difficult to draft, and it infracts its own limitations at its finish. Why? For drama, naturally.

Warning: Dark. Of my various works, this would probably win an award for darkness. Shows how much pain I'm in, writing without that glyph... "Optimistic" tags = 10 posts, "dark" tags = 11 posts. Oh, no! Must jot down a happy story now...

I long for this story to satisfy any anticipation I built up....

Fly Away

Boom. Gunshot. Lord Alastair laughs and laughs.

“Don't.” It's a croak, raspy and low and pitiful. “Don't.”

“Why not?” Moving forward, touching you.

You pull away. It hurts, so much. Blood spills from your cut skin. But it's not just your body, not just your wings—your soul hurts. “You bastard. You goddamn son of a-” You shout until you run out of insults to hurl, but to no avail. Your captor kills your cry with his cold hands.

“Fascinating,” Alastair says, laughing again. “Can you still fly?”

“What do you think?” you snarl.

“Try.”

“No.”

“Do it. Fly. Now.”

Alastair trains his gun on you. You know you shouldn't back down, but that sick part of you that still wants to satisfy him insists on it. Your bloody, thrashing wings lift you into his poisonous air, his own individual portion of sky.

“That's it!” His mocking call burns away your spirit. You stop trying to soar out of sight. “Fly, my bird-girl! Fly high so I can shoot you down again!”

Boom. Gunshot. You fall, cursing him and your own timidity. Your vision turns to black.

But oblivion unchains your unconscious mind. In your illusions and hallucinations, you fly far away from this prison, to a world without blood, without pain, without guns or hunts or vicious lords who drink in your agony and grin. It's not a utopia—nothing is—but it's almost so and that's what counts, for now you think you know what freedom is.