Last Flight

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Obsession can never be ignored or justified; at least not repeatedly. Otherwise, its destruction will be widespread and massive, passes into generations and even worse, becomes a norm in the society..
A true story.

Last Flight


Delicate fluffy feathers with meek flaps fell underneath a dark shadow at an offensive swamp.

Decency might project even the massive erratic curve just as a simple wide smile.

Reassured by the calmness of a crocodile, the little dove delightfully welcomed a new destiny, happily anticipating a forthcoming nest much nicer and luxurious than what she had left.

It was not long before serenity was torn apart to reveal the bizarre reality.

Left free with a tiny creature was nothing short of hunger fulfillment and instinct satisfaction for the big-mouth monster.

Quietly he moved, springing suddenly upon her at times, not to kill, or swallow and lose her; not at all.

Leaving her alive rather pleases him. And so he did.

Nails turned into claws, pulling off fluff and crushing feathers and joints. Upon rising up and between slumbers, he kept flipping her over and over with a harsh tongue and concrete jaws, enjoying her shock, her bleeding and weeping; until she was unable to move, let alone fly or jump.

Attracted to the exhausted and broken dove, preys entered into the arena and attention of the crocodile and his peers, who all got used to gathering and enjoyed chewing bits of those preys.

As if the swamp was not enough to dominate with masculinity; the crocodile kept showing off by training on his dove in the open, among all others. She was left to be literally his, totally owned by, and belonged to him; a silent testimony authorized by all other numb creatures. "Mine" was enough knowledge to occupy the tiny weightless brain of the contrasting bulky beast.

No wound could ever heal, neither could fractures recover, nor could veins ever relax in a gravely heavy and burning shadow.

* *

Oozing blood, the dove's hearing, vision, and her entirety, gradually drained. Her breaths shortened, and the atmosphere got dimmer and dimmer.

Choosing, or forced, to resort to absolute silence and solitude, neither mattered; but a flimsy hope that an explicit abuse might fade away when missing even a whisper and a shiver. Just a flimsy hope.

No wonder they gathered around so heavily; or rather, how surprising. Those crawlers have been used to be offered food, company and even sympathy, by the suffering dove! How ironic! But, for her additional shock, these flunkeys continued approaching and watching, only to disappear at the slightest danger felt encroaching their species' wellness.

Her faint hope of survival eventually faded away, while other beings, who had their senses always directed towards the crocodile, kept swirling around, near and far, regurgitating echoes and scavenging remnants of lonely, stray and weak preys.

Getting desperate, the dove lost the rest of her strength and senses. With diseases attacking her organs and guts one after another, she just kept awaiting her end.

A drop of desire was all that remained and replaced her long-lost spirit. No matter how much and sever has been the suffering; what kept her alive was the mere patience for the chicks to harden up and take off.

So, the moment they went independent and fled from harm; that faint pulse of desire miraculously changed into reassurance; the lull before the storm. And out of the blue, happiness just charged her up with strength and health, so she secretly started training her wings and gathering up her will.

* *

Hiding from all eyes and ears, even from the remote grownups; and giving up all what has been saved for this moment, she went between the bushes, strenuously spread her wings as much as she could, rose her head, and then submitted to a blow of some aromatic and shining breeze, pushing and raising her up. She struggled to flutter with whatever determination remaining inside her, until she soared up and disappeared.

Up she rose, wearing elegant, pearly, breath-taking fresh feathers; and passed away.

She broke the bars of misery, washed away the mud of despair, and parted with that heavy, stinky, and ugly shadow.

Revenge acquired the quality of delicacy and peace, as she looked down from chandelier stars smiling and seeing him floundering, confused, and helplessly agitated.

Her previous existence area at the swamp was replaced with such a unique aromatic vacuum which unexpectedly inflamed the crocodile's blunt understanding and sent his tongue and jaws into a convulsing state while searching for an alternative or like to her, to "his", to "mine". Nothing other than back lashes to strain and deafen him.

Awakening nightmares surrounded him hopelessly, and a heavy, never- ever-experienced consciousness for the impossible, began suffocating him, turning gasps into empty shouts within the shaking bones and viscera. Moving around the dirty bubbles of the swamp, he could not believe that she could ever get away from him, not even by dying in peace! He continued turning around like a thirsty would do among mirages; towards all directions but overturning in the same place.

Goodness and forgiveness made her watch from her height with serenity and pity.

He stayed put within the quagmire of him, of his peers', and instinct heritage; neither able to hear hisses nor to feel help, and devoid of a single trembling thought or passion inside.

The silent departure of the dove immensely shuddered her grown-up chicks and their surroundings; and almost made freaks within them. Nothing other than standing up and waiting for her they could do day after day, as would dry seeds do for rain; looking in every direction, only to notice nothing to sooth.

She towered high above wilted eyelids and desolate ears, leaving dwelling tongues.

In her travel, she encountered the early traders falling down horrible depths; only to forgive them as she did with the late ones, hoping to ease their suffering; and then continued her free ascent, with a gentle heart praying for them all, and generous sights pulling them back up.

Innocence has such a strong hand dedicated only to throw away and erase off any dirt from the love picture it draws.


* *

Dust and mist cleared away, and all remnants of the fluff disappeared. She recognized the actual reality of the crocodile's language which his peers and all traders never realized.

He had no language.

The crocodile, agitated and exhausted, went crawling and splashing blotches of the swamp over his mask-face and around his stone eyes. "How touching!" rumored many crawlers looking from a distance at those false tears.

He used to crush her with his heaviness, but now she went way over him with pureness and with a priceless spectrum of passionate memories.

Without her, he lost his weight and that scanty, transient and primitive consciousness. And the rest of the gang continued with their previous careers; feeding, drinking, and lying down all around.

Days before taking off, she turned away a rare, perhaps the sole, sincere whisper. A live helping hand emerged from in-between the corpses, hours before the end. The dove refused that hand, and endured the suffering with the treasure of an anticipating smile for what is, and who are after to learn, so they do not get hurt.

Peacefulness, gentleness, and unique tolerance were her priceless legacy. Similarly, her simple, prompt but overwhelming departure cast the nicest blow, the noblest frankness, and the deepest explanation to a large majority.

It was her first, her sole, her last, and her fastest flight.


Submitted: January 28, 2021

© Copyright 2021 Faris M O T. All rights reserved.

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