lola; or fate and flightless birds

by Guinevere Ngozi Morgen

There was something wrong with Lola. She thought that it might be her feathers, but her feathers gleamed. Her feathers were perfect, everyone said so. She imagined how her floating silhouette would look against the sunset, where the light would fall through her feathers, where they would shine. Only she could not fly.

She thought it might be her muscles, but she knew that she was strong enough. You could see the tone of her muscles through the sheen of her coat. She could run and dance, and even hover sometimes, better than anyone she ever knew, everyone said so. Only she could not fly.

She thought it might be her personality - that she did not care enough. But most people cared less than her and when she thought about it enough to care about it she was devastated; she could not breathe for caring about it, and neither could she fly.

She often thought she should try to fly; punish everyone by splattering to the floor. Punish everyone for what? For flying badly? For flying in such a way that she’d be embarrassed to fly if she could fly, but she could not.

Lola would be the perfect flier, a model, everyone said so. She had the height and tone, and gleaming, glorious feathers and she could dance and run and pretend to fly, but she could not fly.

Lola thought she’d be a better flier if she took out her inhibitions, so she decided that she did not need to see. Flying was about strength and coordination, her sight was as good as anyone else’s, it could not be the issue - so she decided to remove her eyes.

First, she flew with her eyes closed, though. But she could not commit to it, to keeping them closed as she fell, so she decided to pick out her eyes. She inspected the branches she landed on when she fell and imagined using them to take out her eyes.

And she imagined that, once she blinded herself, perhaps she had a better chance.  But she was not stupid, she didn't do it - she covered her eyes with masking tape instead. She hovered for longer, she ran faster; she ran faster and hovered for longer until one day she did not, and she took it as a sign from God. And she thought to herself, if she could not fly then what else could life offer her?

She resented God for commanding this, that she should not fly.

She sought teachers and flight buddies and the best of the best, but she would soar for a second before she fell. She soared like she did when she was a child, that meaning she did not, over and over again.

She thought to jump from a cliff, with no branches to catch her, and then fly with a broken wing. She imagined how the blood would shimmer in the sunlight as she fell, and everyone would watch and marvel at her bloodstained feathers; no one had thought to fly like her, no one else had thought to look so beautiful as they flew! And her broken wings (once one became two) would not make that harsh beating sound like all the other birds did, they stayed fixed as she glided through the air; statuesque, like china, as she fell to her death.

Lola thought about how the blood might turn brown and rot and ruin her coat, and revised her master plan. Each day, Lola awoke and slept and could not fly, over and over again. She soared like when she was a child, rather not at all, until she broke her wings (and by broke, I mean they grew coarse and ragged). Lola thought about gouging her eyes out, but she went to sleep instead.

BIO: Guinevere Ngozi Morgen is a BIPOC Gen-Z writer from South-West London, with a degree in History and Economics. She began writing when she was about 12, inspired by the fairy tales and fables she read as a child - often invoking this childlike voice in her writing as an adult. Her work heavily features historical and folkloric influences, in conjunction with the everyday insecurities of coming of age. She enjoys gothic literature, fantasy, stories that draw from or mimic folklore, literary fiction and anything with a strong or unique voice.