Short Story excerpt - Wings 2021 12
It happens the first of each month, 12:00 onwards, rain or snow. Sometimes it takes an hour, sometimes it takes ten minutes. It depends on how many prisoners they’ve got to make an example of. Last time was one of the longest I’ve seen; fifty-four prisoners with the last getting chopped at the two-hour marking.
I sit with my legs dangling over the edge of the roof, waiting for the procession to pass through.
It’s 11:49. Eleven minutes.
Wind rustles the clothing lines on the roof, and my ponytail tugs on my scalp. I flip my jacket collar up against the chill. It’s been getting colder recently. I mean, it always gets cold come winter, but December’s not supposed to be cold. I’ve heard whispers from the merchant ship crews about Artica expanding. Maybe that’s got something to do with it. Or maybe Neima’s right and the ‘all-mighty’ Apello’s abandoning us.
“Nice view for the clippin’.”
I look over my shoulder. Elaina, top-lit by the sun, stands behind me with her arms crossed and dark wings half-folded. She tilts her head toward the courtyard square, where a crowd’s growing for the show.
“I bought balcony seats for two, if you’re staying,” I say.
She bows mockingly and settles down beside me. “Noble of you. How much you got still linin’ those pockets?”
“Enough to buy us prime balcony seats and a steak dinner.”
Elaina whistles. “Goddamn, Scars, livin’ well.”
“Living well,” I echo.
The clock tower twitches. 11:54.
I don’t like watching these anymore than anyone else, but the gov requires it. Not many people would risk tapping out of clippings just to get put in one yourself. I hate to admit it, but they are very… efficient at making the cityfolk behave. Commit a crime against the government and get your wings chopped off. Real good model-citizen motivator.
11:55.
Elaina nudges me with her wing. “Here they come.”
The crowd shifts uneasily as soldiers march out of the northern entrance. They swiftly line up along the walls in a tight semicircle, tall and blank-faced. Their silver guns catch the sunlight.
“More than before, or am I seein’ this wrong?”
I nod. “Yeah, it’s more.” A lot more. I grip the edge of the roof tighter as my stomach clenches.
Elaina hums thoughtfully. “How many prisoners there supposed t’be today? Thirty-somethin’?”
“Twenty eight.”
“This seems a bit overkill. Oh, there they come.”
They emerge in a long, solemn line into the courtyard, dressed in ghostly greys, heads ducked, feet shuffling. The crowd backs up as the prisoners come stand before them. Everyone’s quiet. Paper and grit scrape the ground in the wind.
Then she strides in, proud and powerful, a crooked scowl etched on her face. She stands in the middle of the courtyard and surveys the crowd and prisoners. Her hand balances casually on the hilt of her sword.
“She gets scarier every time,” Elaina says. “I mean, look’t those eyes.” She draws her shoulders in and shivers.
Her eyes are a bit intimidating. They’re a cold, cold blue, the color of icebergs and hypothermia. I wouldn’t want to be the one on the other end of them, waiting for her sword to cut away my freedom.
Hmm. That was kinda poetic. Maybe I should get a writing job.
“Hey, you said twenty-eight, right?” Elaina taps my arm.
I glance over at her. “Yeah. Why?”
“I count twenty-seven.”
“You must’ve counted wrong.” But as I scan the row of prisoners, I see it’s one short. Seven, not eight. I frown. The report said twenty-eight.
“I might not be top o’the class like you, but I can count-”
“You’re right, it’s twenty-seven down there.” I guess I read the report wrong.
“Funny, funny. Ah, here we go,” Elaina says. I push it away for now, but my insides twist, unsettled.
The Clipper unsheathes her sword and raises it high above her head. It flashes pure white in the sun. The crowd cheers a little too enthusiastically, voices elevated by fear. Her scowl deepens.
12:00. The clock tower chimes. One of the prisoners starts crying.
We watch, entrapped, as she approaches the man on the far left.
“Spread your wings.”
The man stares straight ahead and clenches his fists. His chin wobbles.
“Spread your wings,” the Clipper says sharply.
He slowly unfolds his pale wings.
She leans close to him and whispers in his ear. We can’t hear what she says, but we know the words by heart. We repeat them over and over in our heads, as we shakingly comb through our pockets for money at the grocery store, as we sit hunched over our exam papers, as we duck our heads and try not to make eye-contact with the patrol guards, as we crawl into bed and sleep and see ourselves standing in that courtyard. We stare down those blue eyes in our nightmares.
May Apello grant you freedom.
She lifts her sword.