Taking Flight

• Toiné Smit, Grade 8
• Short Story
• 2015

Lost. I didn’t know where I was and I didn’t know where I was going, yet I trudged on, focused on placing one foot in front of the other. What had started off as a beautiful afternoon exploring the enigmatic woods turned into a dreary, merciless pilgrimage. My shoulders hung and my eyes brimmed with tears.

That night there was no moon to light up the sinister forest surrounding me or to nourish my spirit with the hope and reassurance my heart craved. All of a sudden the skies opened up, drowning the earth in a thunderous roar, water plummeting down from the endless sky above. I searched frantically for shelter and finally through a deluge something caught my eye, an old bungalow, choked with overgrown vines. I crept towards my source of faint hope, my heart thumping, yet I ignored the fluttering inside my stomach, lifted my foot and entered the house. I gasped for fresh air as a strong pungent smell hit me. Ghostly white, intimidating spider webs decorated every corner of the house and as I edged around, clouds of dust seemed to consume the room.
A wave of tiredness swept over me, as I watched the dawn of a new day through the stained window. Suddenly an unfamiliar sound filled my ears, as I listened I realised that it was beautiful! It was as if someone was playing the harp on the strings of my heart. Puzzled, I looked around the room until my eyes rested upon it, a wondrous object that seemed so out of place. A cuckoo clock with a small wooden cuckoo bird, velvety yellow with vivid red spots peering out of it. A messenger of hope.



I’m not a little girl anymore, yet the enchanting song of my dear friend, the cuckoo bird, is still treasured in my heart, since that day when I adopted it. When I am alone, I whisper all my darkest fears and secrets to it, knowing it will give me hope, just like it did when I was a all lost and alone. And so the years passed on.
It was on a cold morning, deep within the folds of winter, when I realised that something was wrong. The sun was midway through the sky. I crumbled back onto the bed, as reality hit me like a wet blanket. I’d overslept. The cuckoo bird hadn’t sung its song. The bleak cold days now stretched before me. Relentless. Ruthless. My whole life turned into a dark, dreary despairing pit.

It started with a sound. A single sound. Then a vibrant flash of colour. A bright yellow feather dropped into my lap. I picked it up and stroked it against my face. Soft, so soft! It smelt of hope, warm and friendly. I opened my eyes and for a moment creation held its breath. There, taking flight off the roof of the old cuckoo clock was a small bird, velvety yellow with vivid red spots.