One last flight

I could see the storm clouds gathering far above the mountaintops from my perch on the lamppost. It was my fourth winter and I was quite ready to brace the sharp winds and heavy snowfall that my home was accustomed to. I looked along the deserted street, which I called home. From far away I heard the howling of a dog, and the following whimper of fear, as his master would have emerged, probably brandishing a stick. A smile crept to my beak. I had never really enjoyed the company of those despicable creatures. I flew on top of a nearby tower and gazed over the mountain caps to see the cascade of white slowly rolling in. There was still time for one last flight.

I sped past the small houses at the outskirts, hearing snatches of conversation – a worried woman telling ‘Louis’ to bring in the books for the fire. ‘Francine’ arguing with her father about ‘Arno’, and finally ‘Jacques’ complaining about the king to a few of his friends. I stopped and perched atop the blacksmith’s sign, while he was dragging in bundles of coal to his ramshackle storefront. I went on, entering the Bourgeois district. Here, the last rays of the sun illuminated the regally decorated houses. I saw people sitting in their armchairs, enjoying brandy and cigars, engaged in casual conversation while their servants frantically ran about arranging for food and firewood. Everyone was well dressed, emphasising on both fashion and function, as they sat around the fireplace. The peasants I had just crossed, however, wore a little more than torn sacks. A neatly dressed man walked out of his curio shop, stood in the centre of the road, gazed into the distance and walked back in, saying they could deliver three more items before the storm rolled in. Three well-dressed women of African descent were brought out. They all looked disoriented, and one even had a black eye. Here we saw that those ‘ivory towers’ had foundations darker than the hearts of the men that sat atop them. Finally, I flew up to the Palace, where I realised that most rooms were either deserted, or occupied by half drunk servants revelling in joy, singing praises to strange causes and picking fights at the drop of a hat.

I flew about, confused, before I realised the sick irony of it all – the king had taken a lovely holiday to Italy while the kingdom froze and a war went on in the north. I flew up to the top of the tower and looked once again upon the city. I was wrong to think that the storm was coming in. Versailles was already frost bitten.

(The author loves skipping homework as much as he loves watching football. But hey, he’s fourteen, after all. Have a story to tell? Write to dnaofteens@gmail.com)