A passion of mine has always been writing short stories. I have adored creating fiction since I was a little girl. Sometimes, however, I feel more vulnerable sharing words from my imagination than thoughts from reality, like my usual posts. I believe there is beauty and realness in a story that is completely and utterly made up. I want to share a story that is inspired by a picture that I saw in a book a long time ago. It was a simple image of tiny birds on wallpaper inside of a bedroom, while one dove stood out as appearing three-dimensional. I believe the tiny dove deserved to have her own story, so I created this tale. I cannot find the image again, but that's OK, because I want you to imagine the scene in your mind.

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The Third-Floor Bedroom

Cold air smacked the window pane, sending a cloud of dust into the room like a swarm of tiny honeybees. The sun cast its rays against the flimsy curtain, the room appearing to come alive despite the uneasy feeling of emptiness that dominated the unoccupied space. Crisp wind slowly sank inside, touching each wall ever-so-gently and lightly kissing the cracking paint that encompassed all four corners.

Dust dispersed around the room, the light of the sun enabling each particle to resemble glitter. The room that once appeared gray was now dancing with color as sunlight and a breath of air melted into its walls. The bed which resided in the far corner had crinkles in its sheets, the pillow icy cold and slightly dented. It was the only thing in the room that was unkempt and untouched. The floors were tidy and very empty and only fallen dust scattered against the dark brown wood. The room had been cleaned and cleared, but the bed remained unmarked out of fear of altering the pillow of which a small head once dented. The room was no longer occupied.

But now, the window was open.

The wind strikingly came to a stop. The curtains fluttered to a halt, and the rustle of the trees silenced in unison. A sharp crack echoed, breaking the peaceful quiet that had settled in the tiny space of the bedroom. The crackle intensified and quickened, and paint began to crumble like leaves against the dusty floor. White pieces chipped off the walls in a blizzard of struggle, and snowflakes of paint poured as a single white feather sprang forth from the design on the wall into the air.

Bones crackled as a breath of life transformed the bird that was once simply crafted from paint on a child’s bedroom interior. Something that seemed so impossible was converted into a living, moving creature. However, not a single person was there to witness the tiny dove stretch its stiff wings and arch its stout neck up towards the ceiling. Pain shot through its body and rippled in waves as it attempted to break free from the wall whose grip seemed to tighten.

The bird began to panic. Her eyes searched for salvation, and the halo of light that reflected from the window teased her vision. The dove wanted to feel alive. Frustration made her tiny heart drum, and she tugged harder against the solid paint that glued her to the confinement of the bedroom.

The trees began to rustle once more, and the cool breeze barreled into the window, electrifying the dove’s brittle feathers. She inhaled the air, allowing it to flow through the bones of her toes which remained clamped into the wall. She closed her eyes, trusting the wind and allowing her wings to hover against the calm waves of air. She listened, she waited, and she heard.

An explosion of paint rippled from the walls, and the dove gasped as her feathers were set free. She gingerly stretched each vertebra, crackles emptying into the air like a victory call. Her toes, melting from its paint-like state to tangible limbs, broke free, and the dove found herself floating in the air boundless, limitless, and endless. She let the wind carry her, and she looked around the room in fascination. The bed, still untouched and lifeless, remained unaffected, but the bird stared at it with wonder as a faint image played through her mind: a young girl, two braids tucked behind her ears, snuggled into bed as her head barely dented the pillow. She could visualize the child closing her eyes, unexpectedly, for the last time.

The dove blinked open her eyes, very much alive, and looked towards the sky which shone so big and bright beyond the bedroom window. With a final glance at the dusty, lifeless bed of the past, she stretched her newfound wings and allowed the wind to sweep her off towards the unknown.

The little girl who once slept in the bedroom was unaware of who opened the window. But the dove knew. And with a breath of endless life, she soared on limitlessly.