La Pluma
by |
tags:
envy,
servility,
wrath
|
0
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She had eyes like peacocks, the colors emerald, indigo and amber. When she would cry, she would shed a single exotic feather. People always knew where she was going. And when she would laugh, she would grow tiny, dark peacock feet in both corners of her eyes. Occasionally, she would lose a few feathers due to this, but that was OK-people nearby would collect them and arrange a strange and beautiful bouquet.
Sometimes, though, there was a bit too much of an emerald glint in her eyes, and those peacocks transformed into an insidious and slithery green monster. Her feathers soon lost their softness and became reptilian. Scaly. Those worn and warm peacock feet would disappear, soon to be replaced by dark and squinted lines that resembled black and venomous fangs. If she saw something more remarkable than she, perhaps a feather more exotic and alive, she would seek it, and be it. And in order to be it, she would consume it and swallow the bird whole.
Other times, the indigo would pool and overflow into her irises, and no longer would the regal peacock stay. A different bird would take nest in those two ominous and black holes: a raven. Soft and feathery brows became sharp and rigid daggers in the throes of her wrath. With each brow as a shiny, jagged wing, every furrow and scowl would cause this raven to fly faster, more furiously and fervently until the warm blood of her victim weighed her wings down, making it impossible for them to cut away into the dark sky.
And eventually, when the indigo would dry, and the emerald would fade, the amber was left alone. Weak and sad, it lost its lustre quickly, and each batting of her once-feathery lashes soon resembled the tired and servile clop clop cloppings of a brown mule. Dull, dirty, and sad, she would sight heavily through her nostrils and look slowly to the sky-that is, if she could even see it. The ground was brown, the clouds were white, the sun was yellow, and she was everything and nothing at the same time. Just amber.
It required balance to be something great, she finally decided. She needed the snake, the raven, and even the mule to be a beautiful peacock. But how to do so? The instrument needed to achieve this balance, she decided, was not a scale, not a chemical, and not a different color palette, but una pluma. And so long as she had her pluma, she wrote, she would always remain a peacock.
Sometimes, though, there was a bit too much of an emerald glint in her eyes, and those peacocks transformed into an insidious and slithery green monster. Her feathers soon lost their softness and became reptilian. Scaly. Those worn and warm peacock feet would disappear, soon to be replaced by dark and squinted lines that resembled black and venomous fangs. If she saw something more remarkable than she, perhaps a feather more exotic and alive, she would seek it, and be it. And in order to be it, she would consume it and swallow the bird whole.
Other times, the indigo would pool and overflow into her irises, and no longer would the regal peacock stay. A different bird would take nest in those two ominous and black holes: a raven. Soft and feathery brows became sharp and rigid daggers in the throes of her wrath. With each brow as a shiny, jagged wing, every furrow and scowl would cause this raven to fly faster, more furiously and fervently until the warm blood of her victim weighed her wings down, making it impossible for them to cut away into the dark sky.
And eventually, when the indigo would dry, and the emerald would fade, the amber was left alone. Weak and sad, it lost its lustre quickly, and each batting of her once-feathery lashes soon resembled the tired and servile clop clop cloppings of a brown mule. Dull, dirty, and sad, she would sight heavily through her nostrils and look slowly to the sky-that is, if she could even see it. The ground was brown, the clouds were white, the sun was yellow, and she was everything and nothing at the same time. Just amber.
It required balance to be something great, she finally decided. She needed the snake, the raven, and even the mule to be a beautiful peacock. But how to do so? The instrument needed to achieve this balance, she decided, was not a scale, not a chemical, and not a different color palette, but una pluma. And so long as she had her pluma, she wrote, she would always remain a peacock.
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