Saturday, September 9, 2017. Daily Brit Wit.
BRITISH for candy. Also, a sweet dish forming a course at a meal; dessert.
“She’s lounging on her back out in a meadow somewhere beyond her home. The sun has decided to visit and she feels the rays piercing her skin, warming it and no doubt burning it. She stretches lazily with a whinge of protest. Then she tosses around until she’s on her tummy and her cheek is smashed on her forearm. In the new position, the wings that have been developing for a couple months now unfurl.
‘That’s weird,’ she grumbles and shakes the feeling away. Though she’s grinning.
To be honest, she never thought she’s get wings. Plenty of people do nowadays. Estella had thought she’d be apart of the unlucky few because it’s a recessive gene in her family line. Her grandmother was the only one with wings. She’s not quite over the speculation on how she got the gene. She’s ecstatic, though.
Scientists cannot clarify wings in humans like they have for centuries for avians. Every single time it appears the white lab coat wearing people have uncovered a distinct pattern in recessive genes, the same thing multiples in dominate wings families and they start all over again. What little conclusive research has been found and agreed upon is based on the same black and white and grey pigment all new wings have roughly for two to twelve months; colours once fully developed aren’t based on dominate or recessive; and complimentary patterns are liked to your soulmate.
At that thought, Estella fake gags. It drives her insane that scientists- persons dedicated to facts and logic and reality- believe in farces like fairytales! As if soulmates are real. She snorts and her wings flutter in the light breeze, spreading out tentatively in a stretch. It’s kinda amazing how they do their own thing, Estella muses. Sure, she likes to believe in true love but her romanticism isn’t practical: she’s seen what the weakness of love does to a person- with or without wings, now that she’s truly contemplating it.
She pushes upright into a sitting position and stretches to reach for her rucksack. Then she rustles through it and shoving off random pieces of sweets from a bound portfolio folder. She takes it out and digs for pencils. As she closes the bag, she hesitates and then pulls out a wrapped confectionary. Once she’s situated on her belly once more, Estella opens the portfolio to a clean page and starts drawing.
Her grandmother found her so-called soulmate years and years before she married Estella’s grandfather. He’d apparently been the love of her life. Grandmother refused to talk about it, about the man; but if the woman lived well into her nineties without her mate, then there’s no way Estella can believe a mate is necessary. Her grandmother had been spunky and vivacious, if a tad cantankerous, and her wings never lost their vibrancy.
She sketches the meadow and skyline as she thinks.
Then there’s her parents. When Estella had been younger, she fancied her parents soulmates; what child didn’t? Even without wings, her parents struggled in their relationship and time weathered them. One’s disinterested whilst the other is melancholy. She doesn’t understand.
Of course, soulmates can be platonic. Love isn’t always about physical gratification; she supposes that’s another idea that irks her, especially seeing as how the first studied soulmates had been female best friends. Why does everyone feel the need to romanticise love and wings?
Estella’s hand shakes and she leaves a harsh indent on the paper. As she groans, her wings curl back into her shoulder blades. The line has ruined the lavender stalks and wildflowers she was adding to the southend of the drawing.
‘I don’t want no silly love story,’ she mutters darkly at the paper. ‘Let me be independent and free to make my own choices!’
Her wings spasm on her back and Estella chuckles.”