#238 Broken Colors

by DL Musiel

She wonders where she went wrong. For all the stories told by humans to be wary of the Fae, the tales her kind tell of humans are darker, full of allusions that warn of the cruelty and capricious nature of the wingless.

Every parable, every story flew from her head, not from the beauty of his form or face, but the look of adoration in his eyes. She was small and nothing special for a Fae, but his gaze upon her spoke of diamonds and sunrises, amazement and bedazzlement.

In her naivete she missed the darker spots of possession and greed flowing under his hazel irises. Now, wings clipped, she is another pretty bird, caged, a crowning adornment in his aviary. Displayed for amusement, the people twitter and tweet over her beauty and song as they prance by in their swarm of feathered couture.

The Fae can’t cry. Those who hear her sung lament call it lyrical.

3 comments:

selcazare said...

Every parable, every story flew from her head, not from the beauty of his form or face, but the look of adoration in his eyes.

I just love this sentence. This is a very gorgeous and evocative piece.

Jonathan Riley said...

I think I wish I was a Fae. One still with its wings though. It was a tough read the first time through but I read it again smoothly and understood it the 2nd time arround. Great Storry.


Sarah Laurenson said...

Love the 'wingless' description. Well done.