words unwinged

by David Henson

One day our words lose their wings. Everything we say plops out of our mouths and falls at our feet. Some words flop like fish on dry land; others lie lifeless as litter.

Our words always had flown — with the grace of cardinals, the agility of hummingbirds, the power of raptors. No longer. Perhaps we ignored their beauty or spoke them without heart. Maybe we extended their talons too often.

We wait for the world we knew to return, but our hopes that the phenomenon is temporary fade, and we struggle to adapt. An old woman rests her hand over her husband’s heart. He scribbles a note: Me, too. A mother texts her son to be careful walking to school, then kisses his cheek as he reads the message on his phone.

Sometimes our loved ones cradle their fallen words and hold them to our ears. But we hear only white noise, like listening to a conch, our disappointment coming in waves.

The quiet gnaws. Oh, there’s still traffic noise, guitar solos, barking dogs, construction clatter…. But the absence of human voices hollows our world.

Many people refuse to accept our new reality and keep talking, their words accumulating like crumpled newspapers and coffee cups. A few folks vent their frustration by kicking the piles as if to force them skyward.

The heaps and our dismay grow. Resigned, we build bonfires and sweep in the words. As they ascend with the smoke, we wonder if we'll ever know their beauty again.

Photo of David Henson

BIO: David Henson and his wife have lived in Brussels and Hong Kong and now reside in Illinois. His work has been selected for Best Microfictions 2025 and nominated for four Pushcart Prizes. His writings have appeared in various journals including Literally Stories, Ghost Parachute, Bright Flash Literary Journal, Moonpark Review, and Maudlin House. His website is http://writings217.wordpress.com. His X handle is @annalou8.