Written by Kevin Mark Rabida
I guess I would never be able to get used to it, being engulfed by the rhythmic sound of soft feathers stretched like something being freed from restraint and the light that radiates, reflecting that of the sun above the both of us, or perhaps they themselves are luminescent on their own.
Her wings, fully extended, spanned a length twice that of her height and could completely cover her body if she willed it, but today she let me admire the rest of her. Midway through her wings were the joints from which juts out small tufts of feather, like cotton but softer and lustrous, and from there they were arranged as the classical artists from before envisioned them, a perfect specimen of the divine proportion. She moved her wings for me as if she was preparing for flight, only slowly and carefully, allowing me to study her movements.
"Are you afraid?" she asked, frowning teasingly. "No," I answered. "Why should I be?"
"A few days ago, you never believed in us."
"I still don't. Not in the biblical sense." I continued studying her wings, admiring every detail and every feather, and feeling the soft linen-like texture that were her means for flight.
"Of course. There is no one up there after all. Only an endless blue of skies and clouds, and a little further, the stars govern everything."
I mmmm-ed in agreement. "If I plucked one of your feathers, what would happen?"
"Have you ever had someone pluck your hair before?"
"Yes."
"Imagine that, only that someone picks a bunch all at the same time."
"I figured."
She smiled. "It's alright though, if it's you." She extended her left wing to my palm and I whispered "Ready?" With her soft "Ouch" I managed to get a plume the length of my forearm. The feather never lost its prismatic radiance even if it was pulled from its source.
"Sorry."
"What are you saying sorry for? It's okay."
The soft wind blew at us and made the tree branches whistle and the grass bend to its direction, as if worshiping their invisible master. The sun shone even brighter, as time passed by, occasionally being obscured by the cumulus clouds above the plateau from which we stood. I could not remember how she and I ended up here but the mystery is defeated by the sense of longing that I felt by looking at her. But I never showed it. I was genuinely curious of what she was and how she looked like an ordinary person.
On second thought, she did not look like an ordinary person. Aside from the wings, of course. I was taller than her by one or two inches. She wore a simple flowing white dress adorned by a ribbon of a shade of blue, the same color of the hair clips that held her copper-reddish-black fringes. She had a dreamy look in her eyes, but a two-second eye contact with her would pierce anyone's core. But perhaps the most noticeable feature of her face were her lips, small and dainty, like a budding rose, and she smiled at me, perhaps detecting that I am staring at them.
"Sorry again. I was just...thinking."
"Of my lips?"
"Of adjectives to write in my story." I looked away defensively. "Think of writers as painters, their pens are their brushes, and their paper are their canvasses. A painter looks at his subject carefully, allowing every feature permeate his being—every line and shape, every crease and furrow, every color and texture—and then he transfers it to his canvas. Similarly, I needed to look at my...uhhh..."
"Your?"
"My m-muse." I stammered. That's bad.
"You're very old-fashioned, huh? Then again, you don't use pen and paper. You use your laptop to write. That kinda diminishes your painter metaphor. Stop using that to justify your staring at me."
"It's still the same. In concept."
"Psshh. I could argue against that all day."
"Stop arguing."
"You can't win against me."
I never noticed the yellow-orange light of the day gradually give way to the indigo of evenfall. The sky was like something that came straight from the Van Gogh painting of a starry, starry night. Waves and waves of light gently made their way above us, every so often meeting and merging at a spiral that rivals that of the northern lights.
My mind was filled with questions of whether what I'm seeing is fantasy or reality for a split second until her mellifluous voice eradicated them instantly, along with thoughts of plateaus, and wings, and stars, and angels. Only the two of us existed. During that moment, only the two of us were real.
"Do you know the story of Icarus?" I asked her.
"No, but I would like you to tell me. I like your stories."
"Hmm. So Icarus and his father Daedalus were imprisoned by Minos, the King of Crete, in the Labyrinth that they themselves built. The Labyrinth was made to imprison the Minotaur, a half-human, half-bull hybrid."
"How come that such monster exists?"
"Uhh. Well. Uhm. King Minos' wife was impregnated by the Cretan bull."
"You mean..."
"Yes."
"They had..."
"Yup."
"A bull?"
"Oui."
"How..."
"Don't ask me. Uhh...can I continue the story?"
"Oh. Sure sure."
"So when they were imprisoned—
"Why were they imprisoned in the first place?"
"Because Daedalus gave Minos' daughter Ariadne a ball of string, which she used to help Theseus, the enemy of her father, to enter the Labyrinth and defeat the Minotaur."
"Okay. Please continue."
"So to escape, Daedalus, being the great craftsman that he was, made two pairs of wings out of wax and feathers in order for him and Icarus to escape the Labyrinth. Daedalus told his son to follow his flight path and to not get too close to the sun. Icarus was stubborn, of course. Perhaps he was overcome by the pleasure of flight. Perhaps he enjoyed his wings too much. Perhaps he wanted to get close to the sun. He did not heed his father's advice. Icarus soared, getting closer and closer to the sun, and perhaps too close. The wax melted and feathers came off one by one. He flapped his wings in vain until he had no wings left. There's no other way but down."
"Hmmm. Why are you telling me this?"
"I dunno. Because of your wings, I guess."
"They're not made of wax. They're real."
"I know, but they triggered the thought. What do you think though? Of Icarus?"
"I think he is stupid."
"Is he? Perhaps so. It was an irrational desire. The sun, I mean."
"Mmmm."
"I think I am flying too close to the sun." I stared at her and smiled.
"Meh. You don't have wings."
"Should I make one?"
"Why can't I just give you a lift?"
"Right now, that is possible. What happens, then, when you fly away and leave me? Wax and feather wings are better than none. And I think that Icarus died happily, getting closer to the sun than any other being. If in exchange for having my greatest desire for a few minutes is death, I think I would take it."
"You'll fall."
"I already did. There's no other way but down."
"Can we stop with this line of conversation. I don't know what to say." She was lying on her back with her wings spread underneath and her chest-length hair diffused with the grass around her. "Come here and lie beside me," she said. "Let's look at the stars."
"On your wings?
She nodded.
"That would make you look like a mother hen cradling her chick."
"Shut up. If you don't want to, then fine."
She looked back upwards and I made my move towards her left wing. The moment I lay on her pillow-soft plumes, I was instantly enveloped by her scent that lingered, reminding me of a faraway place, of cold January winds, of late-night bus rides, and Newtons, and fries, and unrequited feelings. I sensed that I would have plunged into oblivion if not for a force that pulled me back. I felt her wings cover me and warmth immediately rushed all over my body. "You're drifting. Don't go. Don't give in to sleep, please. Not yet."
I could feel her right arm over my chest, holding me protectively. I could feel her heart beating on my arm, and her breath on the side of my face. My heavy breathing and heart palpitations gradually came to a calm. The stars overhead still flowed, oblivious of us, indifferent to our existence. Do we even exist?
"We do."
"What?"
"Exist."
I looked to my right and saw her staring back at me. "Did you read my mind?" I asked. "Can you do that?"
"Yes."
She leaned forward and kissed me. Seconds. Hours. Eternities. I didn't care. The world swirled around us, leaves, grass, stars, and all, like a photograph distorted using the Liquify filter in Adobe Photoshop. I drew a blank, until she broke the kiss.
"I didn't think of kissing," I said.
"I did," she replied.
O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?
"'What satisfaction canst thou have tonight?'" She smiled. "'You kiss by the book.'"
"Well, since we are quoting Shakespeare, 'Give me my sin again.'"
It might not be bad at all, sinning. I mean, I'd gladly take hell, if hell even exists, for this...this kiss. It was perfection. Too perfect. How is it that I could speak straight to her, and do so in an I think cool way, when all I could do back then was stammer my responses in our conversations, and get haunted afterwards on the bus rides going home by l'esprit de l'escalier shouting things I should've said and things I should've done. It was like... a dream.
A dream.
The cold wind that blew at us that made the branches whistle over the plateau from which we lay. The sun that radiated, every so often getting obscured by the cumulus clouds. The waves and waves of stars that slowly merge and form a spiral that would rival the northern lights. Her wings of prismatic luminescence that covers me right now. Her hair of copper-reddish-black, her flowing white dress and her ribbon and clips of a shade of blue, her soft lips that gently pressed against mine.
A dream.
The sky fragmented and split into a bipolar entity of cumulus clouds and starry waves. The ground below us vaporized, slowly at first, but gained momentum until all I could see was an oblivion of nothing. The only one that held me to my safety was the angel, until she too evaporated and swallowed by the nothing around us.
"I am your muse, right?" A voice whispered in my ear.
"Always."
I guess I flew too close to the sun. I'm falling. There's no other way but down.
A familiar green ceiling welcomed me as I woke up with a start. It was just a dream. I dreamt of her again, of course. My unconscious were filled with thoughts of her, lately—thoughts that I doubt are even reciprocated. Still, the words flow out like endless rain and stories are born from dreams that never were, and perhaps never will be. The clock on my phone says 2:55 am. I don't know which is colder, the wind that blows through my window or the frigid and empty space inside of me. The cold bothered me. The cold kept me awake.
Wings. Nice touch, my dream-weaver brain. You had me convinced. Almost. Beings with wings would eventually fly away. Your wax and feather wings aren't made for getting close to the sun. And when you fall, there's no other way but down.
Huh.
Why do I have a feather on my lap?
