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A sheet of pure white paper fluttered softly in the wind. It was caught in the closed window of an ancient house. The little girl who lived in the house found it there and brought it back inside. She took out a quill and began writing her thoughts into the soul of the paper. Her beautiful words were sad and slightly bitter and they gave the paper life. When the sun set and the whole house was dark the paper began to slowly recreate itself. The words became its heart, the ink became its blood and the paper became its bones and feathers. The newly born bird shook her white feathers and launched herself rather ungracefully off the high table. She fluttered her weak wings barely managing to keep from crashing into the wood floor. Seeing moonlight spilling in through an open window she flew out into the silver darkness of the night.


The cawing of a crow woke the paper bird early the next morning. She was cold and damp with dew but the bright sun was quickly drying her feathers. The crow cawed again and flew high above the paper bird’s head. His feathers were ebony and his eyes were like bright chips of obsidian. His wings carried him high into the clouds, then back down to skim the tree tops in a kind of laughing dance. To the paper bird he was the most wonderful think in the world. Calling out in her soft, clear voice she flew up toward him, but her wings were only made of paper and she couldn’t fly so close to the sun. He flew in loops and dives higher and higher and she loved him then for his freedom and careless ways. His laughter sounded almost taunting to her ears and she began to hate him. A single word in flowing script was written somewhere in her ink filled heart, death. Though he still flew far above her head she knew that eventually she would catch him and bring him down to earth.



Life became almost monotonous for the paper bird. Each morning she would awake to the cawing, it was a constant reminder of the only purpose she had. She seldom saw other birds and when she did the kept their distance. She was made of ink and paper while they were made of flesh and blood, and though they looked the same, she was still… different. Sitting on the branch of a red rose bush she looked almost like a ghost, lonesome and still.


It was by chance that the angel found her there, cold and shivering in the mist. He picked her up with his gentle hands, sheltering her from the freezing air. Your heart… he said softly, it’s beating so fast… She looked into his bright blue eyes and knew that she was scared of him and the power he held. But her pride welled up, so she forced her heart to slow and forced her eyes to mask her fear. She ruffled her feather boredly and tucked her head under one wing pretending to fall asleep…


For the first day since creating herself the paper bird woke without the cawing in her ears. She raised her head and found herself in a strange white world. There was no sky, there was no ground, and she felt like she was in a feathered egg. She should have been afraid in such a small space for she was a creature of the sky, but instead she felt…. safe. Turning around she realized that the angel had curled his wings around them both, making a kind of shell. He had been sitting behind her when she awoke but now she studied his kind face knowing that even though she didn’t want to trust him she did. She would trust him with her life.


The days had new meaning and the paper bird slowly forgot about the crow. She had finally found a friend who would never leave her. A friend who didn’t care that she was made of paper and ink. She didn’t know it, but the angel was slowly falling in love. His strong wings carried them both higher than she had ever flown before, she marveled at the landscape, and he smiled to know he had made her so happy.


The bright afternoon sun beat down on the angels wide wings. It was mercilessly hot so high up. The paper bird was about to suggest that they go back down to the cool shade. She knew that, even though he was strong, the angel was tiring quickly. A dark shape flitted at the edge of her vision and her whole body tensed. Can it be? Harsh cawing confirmed her suspicions; she finally would be able to kill the crow. Can you please go higher? she asked gently. The angel didn’t reply but instead flapped his huge wings harder and they slowly rose. He badly needed to rest but he cared more that she was happy and said nothing. They were only a few yards from the crow when the angel’s wings gave out without warning. The paper bird was paying attention only to the crow so she thought that the angel had merely decided to go back down. Launching herself out of the angel’s arms she attacked the crow with unimaginable fury. The black bird was so surprised that he fell a few feet giving the paper bird the upper hand. He had no reason the want to fight her and with a burst of his unmatched speed he escaped with only a small scratch across one eye. Screeching curses the paper bird flew downward scanning the ground for the angel. She saw him lying on the moss beside the river. At first he looked the way he always did, but as she got closer she was confused by the position of his wings. He had never lain like that before, and she couldn’t imagine it being very comfortable. The sad smile that normally graced his face was gone, in its place was an oddly blank and hollow stare. The little paper bird could feel fear plant itself in her breast and her inky heart beat faster. She landed at the side of the angel, but still he did not move. At the sight of a trickle of blood staining his magnificent wings the realization hit her live a tangible force. Her heart stopped, it just died as suddenly as it had been created. The ink in her veins slowly seeped through her paper skin and dripped onto the ground as if her whole body was crying. It’s my fault isn’t it, she whispered, I asked, and you gave… you gave and gave… until you only had your life to give… and you gave that too… a strange sound escaped her throat, a sob of anguish. The implication of what she had done weighed down upon her back until she could no longer stand it. She flew straight up, higher than even the crow dared to fly. Higher and higher as the heat from the sun singed her paper wings. Up into the sun she flew, even as her skin began to catch on fire. The screaming pain of burning alive slowly destroyed what was left of her shattered mind… but still she flew upward… only when her last breath escaped her body did she fall…


A laughing crow with a red cut across one eye watched the little girl who lived in the ancient house, she was laughing and dancing in the bright sunshine. It’s snowing! It’s snowing! she yelled with innocent enthusiasm. That’s not snow, answered the tired voice of her nanny, it’s ashes…