How I Got My Feathers - WINNERS

Kharon

I had just wanted to be like everyone else, to fit in. Everyone else had their feathers, but not me, after all, who would I get them from? A dead mother? A father that I despised? No, I wouldn't take his feathers even if he offered them. So, I decided I would have to do this myself.

My fur was heavy with water as it attempted to cling onto me, to resist the force of gravity acting on it. It was as if the sky was sharing my sorrow, the isolation within the streets making me feel even more alone – detached from the constructs of society where all the civilised Kiamaras lived. There were no birds, so catching one for some feathers wasn't going to happen. But I continued my search regardless, as surely there would be something, anything, I could use. As my own hopelessness attached to my fur in the form of mud and vegetation, weighing me down physically and mentally, I gave up. Perhaps this is where I was meant to be, sitting cold and alone in the mud, the rain offering no comfort and chilling me through to my bones. I could barely feel my face, the cold biting mercilessly at my thin frame, only interrupted by the slight warmth of the tears as they traced the line of my jaw.

It was then that I saw my salvation - what I had been seeking. It came in the form of an old birds nest, from the season before, its wooden structure padded with a lining of feathers. Some small and fluffy, belonging to the young birds, those wouldn't do, they wouldn't attach. And some longer ones, shed by the older birds, and forced into the frame. True they weren’t perfect. They weren't nice, or bright and colourful like most, they wouldn't make me look special, but I didn't want to be special, I wanted to be like everyone else. It didn't matter that they weren't perfect examples, as long as I had the feathers to call my own, following the status symbol of maturity and growth like the rest. So I took them. In the struggle to remove them from the nest, they tore, the thin membranes of the feathers not able to cope with my actions. But I didn't care. These tattered feathers were mine and I would wear them with pride, because I had gathered them on my own.

They were never quite clean, but they didn't stay even this way for very long. A guest had an "accident" in my house, and the ends developed their stained red tips. It was uneven and unkempt, but I liked them. They were me, so I kept it. No one questioned, so I believe that I've handled it quite well. I used to want to be like everyone else, but now I know I'm special, and my feathers are just a part of me, like everything else.

A wordless expression of who I am.

500 words

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Blair

Blair had been a troublemaker pretty much from the day he had been born. His mother had just dumped him on his father's doorstep, then was never seen again, but Blair's father didn't really want him either. So he was placed into foster care. They were nice people, not like the sob stories that you often hear coming out of that, but he never really felt like he belonged, so he would turn to crime for entertainment, and to fulfil the feeling of pleasure he had when he got his way by whatever means. This trend continued right up to the day he received his feathers and was told he had reached adulthood.

His final foster home didn't have much. They were nice Kiamaras, he just didn't like them. They wanted to control him, but he didn't want to be controlled. The feathers were dull. Black. One worn around his neck, one around his wrist and then one on his tail. He was forced to wear them, even though he did not want to, so the day he became an adult, he defaced them. These things were meant to represent him, so he felt like he could do whatever he wanted to them. He had left just enough time for his "parents" to see, just so he could relish in their expressions. He found it very amusing, the red smears on his feathers dripping paint onto the carpet of his former room, his hands coated in it, with two stripes across his cheeks as war paint. As this was war, or the end of a war, and he was the victor. They couldn't do anything to him now, he was in the clear. Free at last, and finally able to be his own Kia rather than following the orders of others.

They had tried to complain, tell him sob stories about the feathers' importance to them, but he wasn't listening. He didn't care. He was going to be the one wearing them, so he could do whatever he wanted to them, and so he had. The paint was uneven, messy, even flaking off in some bits, although he didn't care. He wasn't exactly perfect either. This was about expressing himself for the first time on his own, without anyone else telling him what to do, and he was going to take advantage of it, and be as reckless as he could, and he loved it already.

As this was the start of a new beginning for him - his adult life, and no one was going to tell him how to live it.

433 words

B R I M L A D

Brim swung her legs over the side of the large rock that she was sitting on. It was just like every other rock, laying motionless, overlooking the angry ocean during the storm. She sighed as the wind kicked up again, throwing salty water up to her feet and knocking the gold colored sunglasses from the top of her head. Her eyes followed them downward as they landed with a splash in the ocean. She muttered a curse under her breath. There was no getting those back now. Not like it mattered, though, she could get another pair. The air was icy, and she could feel it seeping into her jacket, but the cold didn't bother her. It only made energy corse through her veins.

Brimlad jumped to her feet as she heard footsteps behind her, but to her relief it was only her friend February. The kind hearted kiamara had come out to the freezing sea to bring Brim some hot chocolate and a blanket. "Your going to get sick, Brim." February said quietly, her concern for the stubborn girl obvious. "You've been out here for almost four hours." Feb concluded. Brim forced a smile, "Im fineee, really!" Brimlad said, throwing her hands in the air. "I just don't know what to do." February frowned as Brim's eyes lit up. "I know," Brimlad shouted, snatching her surfboard off a nearby rock. "Im going surfing!" She yelled, sprinting towards the water. February tried to yell, "BRIM! Its too cold! come back!" but it was useless, Brim had her mind set.

Brimlad raced off into the water, grinning as the coldness hit her fur. Her happiness was short-lived, as she was thrown off of her board at the first real wave. The water chilled her to the soul, its unforgiving coldness sucked all of the heat from her body. Her paws shot to the surface of the water, blindly searching for her surfboard. Finally her hand smashed into something solid on the top of the water and she clung to it, searching for something to save her from the cold water. When she hauled herself onto the board a small bird sat on the edge of it. It's wing appeared broken and it seemed to hang onto the board with the same desperateness that she had. The bird was small, probably a finch of some sort. It had beautiful golden feathers. They were both holding on for life in the freezing sea. After 10 minutes of paddling and holding on for life, she made it back to the shore with the bird on the board. Brim was determined to save the young finch, but she failed. It was too late for the bird, it was wet, freezing, and broken.

Brim luckily walked away from the experience with her life, but she also gained a new respect for the ocean and how tragically unforgiving and dangerous it is. She wears 3 of the bird's feathers as a reminder not to test the sea.

{{ 500 words exact

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