Page 6 of Songbird: Black Kite
It was depressing as fuck, and yet, I couldn’t stop reading them.
Slouching down onto the leather couch in the corner of my study, I fished into the nearly empty box and snagged the next letter out at random. It was a plain envelope, the white paper yellowed a little with time, but no different from the hundreds of others I’d gone through already.
But something about this onefeltdifferent.
It might have been the writing on the front, the neat, boxy script looking like it was done with meticulous care. Or it could have been that the address was written in blue glitter pen so the words sparkled when the light caught them just right.
Or it might have been the fact that the back of the envelope, the side with no writing at all, was instead covered with an intricately drawn feather, one that stretched from the bottom left corner to the top right, each barb drawn in stunning detail, the shading making a pattern along the entire thing, almost like a tiger stripe, but more uniform.
I stared at it, marveling again that someone had taken the time to add this detail, something personal and special and gorgeous. Flipping the envelope over again, I looked at the top corner, searching for the return address, but there wasn’t one. The postmark over the stamp indicated somewhere in Minnesota, but the ink had smudged on the name of the city, so I couldn’t make it out clearly, just that it started with a ‘G’.
Not wanting to ruin the gorgeous drawing, I carefully inserted the letter opener, sliding it slowly along the top of the envelope and doing my best not to cause any tears.
When I finally had it open, I pulled out the letter. It was written on lined paper, the kind you had in your binders in school, with three holes along the side and the red line for keeping your shit straight. There was a date at the top, telling me that this letter had sat in a box in my attic for over twenty-one years.
Fuck.
My hands shook as I unfolded the letter, noticing that the lined paper had also been covered with sketches. There were more of the delicate feathers, but there was also a stunning pencil drawing of a bird’s profile.
Not just any bird, but a hawk.
A black kite, to be specific.
Blowing out a deep breath, I shook out the letter and began to read.
Chapter four
Wren's Letter
DearMr.Hawk,
My name is Wren Blackburn and I am fourteen years old. I’d tell you about my school and where I live, but they just did a whole lame presentation in the gym about not sharing our information with strangers on the internet, so I guess that probably applies here, too, even if they actually meant not sharing it in AIM chats and not paper fan mail.
It’s weird to think about you as a stranger, though, because I feel like I know you.
Not just from the things they print in the magazines (even though I know all of that stuff, too) but through your music.
Denise at my school says I’m weird for liking your music. She says it’s for boys but that’s just dumb because music is forpeople!But Denise thinks she’s special because her dad took her to the Britney Spears concert in Minneapolis last year for her birthday. Like, whatever, right? So she went to a stupid concert. So did twenty thousand other clones.
Anyway, back to the music part. I am writing to tell you how much I love your latest album,Take Flight. I picked it up at the checkout counter at Walgreen's the other day. I realize I’m a little late in getting it, but I had to save up some, and with back-to-school shoes and stuff, it took a little longer than I’d hoped, but it was totally the bomb!
Anyway, I should let you go, but I wanted to say that I love it and I love you and my favorite songs areHollowandInter-dimensional, even if Denise says they’re dumb.
Denise doesn’t know shit.
Your fan,
Wren
Chapter five
Wren
Twenty-One Years Ago
“Wren!Comesetthistable, please!”
My mother’s voice called up the stairs, strained but trying not to be. She was like that more and more lately; tense and anxious and pretending that everything was fine.
