WorldLit #6: Post-Modernism / A Scribbled Bird

A Scribbled Bird

“So, you know, this 14^th waver who went to Stanford……”

             As soon as I arrived home, my mom started to tell me information about all these college admission stuffs she heard in a meeting with other moms. She put out a pen and some notes, and started to explain what specs do colleges prefer and who went to what college with what kind of essay. Mom even seemed to be excited. I couldn’t understand. Man, I came home for the first time since the start of the semester, and I did so to relieve myself, not to hear college information!

             I lost track of what she was saying, almost deliberately. I hold the pen, and started to scribble on the back side of the note. I drew curves, round and round, following the motion of my fingers. Oh, the scribble looked like a bird! I drew a beak and an eye, and plumed its feathers. The bird was flying.

             I was flying. I was stretching my wings in sharply streamlined shapes, drifting on the cold flow of air. I folded my legs in order to reduce the air resistance. The air was separating at the tip of my beak. I felt the cold flow of air riding on my skin. I listened to the cheerful sounds of my fluttering feathers. I was feeling so free.

             Then, suddenly I thought, ‘isn’t it too fast?’ Yes, it was. Whirls of winds were fiercely forming around my presence. I closed my eyes because the wind hitting my face was so powerful. My six toes were quivering in frustration. The air riding on my skin was now freezing. It was almost sucking me up. My feathers were fluttering so wildly that they made thunderous sounds. However I could not unfold my wings. Rather, my wings were becoming sharper and sharper, stiffened at their positions. I was flying faster and faster. Wait, was I actually flying? No. I was falling. The gravity was making me fall faster and faster.

             BANG! I crashed, right on the sofa where I was sitting, as the arrow indicating the direction of the bird hit the bottom of the page. I finished the arrow by marking its tip. My mother asked,

“Mingyu, are you listening?”

“Of course, mama. Keep going.”

“Okay, so his mom said that to be accepted by Princeton……”

And I started scribbling again.