Her Sky
by Siegfried Danzinger
The wind, delighted, played with her mane; tossing it shamelessly and making its many hues ripple and dance together.
The sun, amused, warmed her coat; her feathers embraced its heat as two strong wings carried her higher.
The clouds parted for her; made way for the ascending blue pegasus and a vibrant, unmistakable streak of color.
At this moment, she was a rocket. An unstoppable burst of dazzling energy. Were it not for her rainbow mane, she could have united with the sky itself; an immeasurable sea of white-accented azure.
It was hers. Belonged to her.
This wasn't a race; there was no starting line. This wasn't a journey; there was nowhere she had to go. This wasn't an exhibition; she was flying for herself.
The bright blue rocket pierced a particularly thick cloud with a satisfying puff; bits of the white mass scattered throughout the air. The pegasus collected them and dutifully patched the hole, taking a moment to appreciate her work. Finally, she smoothed a hoof over the repaired injury; giving it a pat that seemed like a reassuring, "There, all better."
She looked around. Took in everything that could be taken in. The earth was a far away place, now; a different world altogether.
And she was home.
The former rocket became a bird of prey; effortlessly skimming along the pale sea of cloud and hunting her shadow. She dipped a hoof into the strange waters and made a furrow. Her eyes half-closed and a smile shone on her face.
And she dove.
Down into the quiet, floating sea. Deeper. Deeper. And deeper, still; abandoning the world of blue for a harmless and familiar white fog.
She escaped from the pale and thrust into the azure once more. A whole world of color. Of life. A world without limits and nothing to slow her down. It was exhilarating. Her wings were drawn behind her as she imitated a beautiful meteorite.
Ten.
The pegasus felt it; something building inside of her.
Nine.
It could be called any number of things, but the name of it didn't matter.
Eight.
Nothing would stop her but her. Nothing could hold her but doubt; and she felt nothing of the sort.
Seven.
That other world was fast-approaching. A less confident flyer might balk.
Six.
Change their mind. Give in to fear and uncertainty. Question their own ability.
Five.
There was a time when she wasn't sure she could do it. When something dared to hold her back.
Four.
But things were different now. She owned this moment; these last few moments.
Three.
Those last few moments before she would fill the sky with radiant color.
Two.
And defy the gravity of all the world below.
One.
An explosion. A ring of myriad hues, bursting outward and carrying her timely triumph through the air.
The once-plummeting meteorite shot back up into the sky at an extreme angle; never so much as brushing the earth below. She ventured a satisfied backward glance. There was never any question. Never any doubt.
At this speed, all else appeared to slow down. A grateful, delighted heart beat in her chest; a little drum that marked both her ascent and her growing enthusiasm.
There were other flyers; skilled ones, even. Others who loved the sky much as she did.
But today, if only for a time, this was her sky. Her world. Her blue, blue, cloud-littered ocean. Her tail a brush that painted the path behind her; telling any who might spy it that she had been there only moments before.
And this wouldn't be the last time. There would never be a last time; not truly. The wind, the sun, the clouds. She would borrow them all for a while.
A rainbow grinned across the sky. A pegasus bathed in its sunlit waters as ships of white sailed through.
Author's Note
Thought I'd write about someone I love.
Her Sky: A Poem
by Siegfried Danzinger
The wind, delighted, played with her mane;
Together, its many hues ripple and dance
The sun, amused, warmed her coat;
Her feathers embraced its heat
The clouds made way for the ascending blue pegasus
With her came a vibrant, unmistakable streak of color
She was an unstoppable burst of energy
She could have united with the sky itself
It was hers
Belonged to her
There was no starting line
Nowhere she had to go
This wasn't an exhibition;
she was flying for herself
She took in everything that could be taken in
The earth was a far away place
And she was home
She skimmed along the pale sea of cloud
Dipped a hoof into the strange waters
And she dove
Down into the quiet, floating sea
Abandoning the world of blue for one of white
She escaped from the pale;
Thrust into the azure once more
A whole world of color and of life
One without limits and nothing to slow her down
Nothing would stop her but her
Nothing could hold her but doubt
There was a time when she wasn't sure
When something dared to hold her back
But now she owned this moment
Those last few moments before she would fill the sky
Fill it with radiant color
And defy the gravity of all the world below
A ring of myriad hues burst outward
Carried her triumph through the air
She shot back up into the sky;
Never so much as brushing the earth below
All else appeared to slow down
A grateful, delighted heart beat in her chest
Today, if only for a time, this was her sky
Her blue, blue, cloud-littered ocean
The wind, the sun, the clouds
She would borrow them all for a while
A rainbow grinned across the sky
She bathed in its sunlit waters as ships of white sailed through
If the air loved her, it could not be blamed
If the sky missed her after, it was no wonder
If the clouds envied her, it surprised no one
It eyes feel upon her, it was to be expected
A shining, reassuring beam of colored light
On a vast and unequaled canvas
Author's Note
Does it occur to anyone else that the 1,000 word minimum requirement is, well, stupid? That it needlessly interferes with the writing process and potentially forces the writer to artificially extend or water down the content of their story? You can't measure the effort or meaning put into a work by its word count.