Free Beyond the Laughing Sky by Michelle Cuevas

shorts, shouting “Way to go, little guy.”
    Nashville felt it all—the singing of the seasons, the warmth of wind, the sailing of ships, the migration of birds, and the simple, perfect smell of the ground after rain. He felt that there was nothing under his skin but light, and were he to ever fall to the ground, he would merely shine.
    He felt all these wonderful things until he heard the worst sound—the sound of something breaking.

N ashville heard the snap, followed by a rip, followed by the feeling of the wings slipping, falling from his body. The wings first broke along the main support—a loud cracking sound like a bone. Next, the smaller pieces of wood all began to shatter, and this sounded more like branches being stepped on in the forest.
    When the wings had broken in enough places, the leather material and feathers began folding and buck-ling like a collapsing umbrella. This meant that Nashville began to fall, hard and fast, the wind whipping against his face.
    He was falling, but Nashville did not scream or cry. He knew he would hit the ground, that’s how gravity works. But before that could occur, something very strange, and very lovely, appeared to him.
    Now, it is worth noting all the things that did not appear. All the things he did not see or hear or recall as he fell.
    Nashville did not see the light inside his egg, how dark it was, how the shadows danced, or the sound of his mother’s voice singing.
    Nashville did not see geese flying south for winter overhead, or catch a glimpse of their perfect V shape.
    He did not recall Magnolia, the soft down of her stomach feathers, or how fast her heart beat when he held her.
    Nor did he hear the sound of the countless people who had pointed and laughed at him over his ten short years.
    He did not see the sky the color of spider tents, or feel the evening as cold as fish scales, or marvel at the sunset glowing like the inside of a ripe plum.
    He did not recall his father teaching him to throw a punch, just in case.
    He did not remember dusk. A meadow. Long grass, the first buzzes and hums of night insects all around him as he lay on the damp earth with Junebug by his side. He was not covered with vines that had grown so fast, twisting up, diving in and out of each buttonhole on his vest.
    He did not see artichokes or blowfish or the purple sunset or the frill-necked lizard. He did not see spiderwebs or eclipses or a star-nosed mole. He saw absolutely no platypuses at all.
    This is what he noticed:
    As he fell, for one simple, splendid, golden moment, he felt nothing but gratitude; gratitude for his old soul and true heart, for his strange looks and strange beginnings, for all the things that made him Nashville. And the moment this feeling flowed through him, something inside him started to blossom. This great leap began to bring about a great change, and Nashville was finally ready to let it transform him.

“J unebug,” whispered Nashville. he stood over his sister in her bed, the night-light’s glow beginning to blend into the dawn.
    â€œJunebug, wake up,” Nashville said, shaking her small shoulder. Junebug stirred, and then opened her eyes. She looked up at her brother. There, in the first light, Junebug smiled at the sight of Nashville.
    â€œYou came back,” she said, slowly waking. She put her toes on the cold wood floor, and tiptoed around Nashville.
    â€œThe wings,” she said, walking around him. “They’re different. Did you add feathers? Are they bigger? They’re magnificent, Nashville, like angel wings,” gushed Junebug. “They’re like nothing I’ve ever seen.”
    Slowly, slowly, Nashville began flexing his shoulder muscles.
    Slowly, slowly, the wings began to unfold. After a few moments, Nashville was able to extend them both fully.
    â€œThey’re so beautiful,” said Junebug. She inspected them closely, looking at how each feather overlapped perfectly,