He peered over the edge, at the green and white rush and pull of salt water. He knew he wasn’t ready, felt he never would be. He was different than the others.
Leaning back in the nest’s twigs and grass, he looked up longingly. The others twirled, glinting in the sky, shards of rainbows and fire. They dove and darted, calling him to join them. They’d flown weeks before; soon they wouldn’t return at all.
His mother landed beside him.
I can’t. I’m not like them.
You are. More than you know. She shoved him, gently, from the nest.
© Liz Husebye Hartmann (2021)
Carrot Ranch Prompt (11/25/2021): In 99 words (no more, no less), write about a canceled flight. Where was the flight headed? Who does it impact and why? How does a protagonist handle the situation? Go where the prompt leads!