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I'm a 15-year-old writer from the middle of absolutely nowhere. Sometimes I like to kid myself and tell my friends I can write, other times I'm realistic and end up crying in my bathtub.

Message from Writer

Child of our time, our times have robbed your cradle
Sleep in a world,
Your final sleep
Has woken
-- Eavan Boland, Child of Our Time

Under the Rafters #Feathers

March 17, 2019


It's Sunday when Dad tells me to clean out the attic. At first, I complain because who wants to spend their last day of freedom before school wading through rat dung and cobwebs? Then Mom tells me to suck it up and put on the Marigolds, and I do just that in three seconds flat. She's terrifying, that woman.

I grab the mop bucket and fill it with boiling water from the kettle, pouring in whatever liquid cleaner I can find under the kitchen sink. Wiping the sweat already forming on my face, I grab the attic key from the front hall and job up three flights of stairs. The door to our attic looks like something from a horror movie. It's covered in mahogany paint that hadn't dried properly before Derek, my brother, decided to run his hands through it. Fingerprints paint the colour of dried blood decorates the door frame. I'm not cleaning that. 

Slipping the key into the hole, I twist until the rust scrapes off and the door nudges open with a forceful kick of my Doc Martens. Darkness floods the hallway, pushing out any light that tries to enter the room. I frown. This doesn't look like it'll kill me at all.

I force myself to walk inside, flicking on the small torch I grabbed from the storeroom on my way up. A pool of muted light shines on the floorboards, illuminating a patch of something... fluffy. Grabbing the mop, I walk closer, ready to strike at any axe-wielding murderer that's going to leap out. When nothing happens, I crouch, inspecting the pile. Feathers. 

Dozens and dozens of white feathers tipped in black, all around the length of my forearm. They don't belong to a bird, I don't think. If they do then I'm moving out because this demon bird is almost as big as me, if the feathers represent what the rest of it looks like. I reach out to touch one, rubbing the softness between my fingertips. Something squawks. I stop rubbing.

A dark blur leaps out at me. I panic, tripping over the bucket as I scramble for the door when somebody grabs my arm, spinning me around into their chest. A bubble of fear churns underneath my ribs. I flail my arms, trying to get out when a soft blanket covers my shoulders. Warmth radiates from the probable axe-wielding murderer. 

"Stop bloody moving, will you?" The murderer has an English accent. 

I squeeze my eyes shut tighter. "Please don't kill me. I won't touch your feathers, I promise."

"You can keep them."

I open my eyes. Silver ones gaze down at me - they belong to a boy covered in the beautiful feathers.

"You're a bird."

"How dare you! I'll have you know that I am -"

"Sorry. You're an oversized bird with a human face - what the hell are you doing in my attic?"

I realise his wings curve around my shoulders like a blanket.

"I need your help."
Here you go! Hope this counts lmao.


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  • March 17, 2019 - 11:59am (Now Viewing)

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