I’m 18 when I grow my flight feathers. They itch and stem from my shoulder blades. My mama rubs a towel onto my skin where the feathers have torn their way through me. I’m scared and shaking. I still don’t know why, don’t know how this is happening. There’s a party for me. Mama cuts two slits in the back of my thobe. My thobe is a beautiful embroidered dress. I feel bad cutting it up. We dance, all my female relatives, in thobes like mine, wings proudly jutting out from their backs. My wings are small. There’s still room for them to grow. I spread them as much as I can, mimicking the way the other women move their wings. We all dance with platters full of candles and flowers held on our heads. I take a platter and balance it the best I can with one hand while fan out my skirt with the other, bunching up the fabric. Learning to fly is difficult, but I teach myself how to stay in the air pretty quickly. When I fly, I imagine that everything below me belongs to me because I flew over it. When I fly, I feel what little freedom I am afforded. Flying is an exclusively female freedom. No men have grown wings. I take great pride in my flight feathers. In the twin slits in the back of my thobe. In my wind-blown hair. Even the pain of molting. All the good and bad. Wings are a rite of passage, and I have grown my flight feathers. About the author:
Yasmeen Amro is a neurodivergent author with publications in Fusion Fragment and State of Matter. She enjoys reading, writing, and baking.
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Flying towards the beautiful, distant horizon the pilot, in charge, scrutinized the brain focused on center of runway Suddenly, the snow twirled and swirled stroke causes plane to slide off the end of tarmac what’s going to happen? With grit and strength determination rules aphasia now controls the airspace Landed in a foreign country cannot speak or understand the language new journey is ready to begin About the author:
Rochelle M. Anderson lives in Minnesota, USA. She is an attorney who had a severe stroke in 2007 and almost died. She is still disabled with difficulty walking; and because of aphasia struggles with reading and writing. Ms. Anderson has been published in four chapbooks and in an online poetry journal. Writing poetry has helped her recover; and dictation fuels her words. Forest, dark and scary. Will I lose the magic beans? Animals speak, ogres growl, and wolves disguised. Fairy tales read to me as a child, are remembered as an adult. My story begins with a black, pointed hat and scraggly broom. A witch suddenly appears, casts a spell, and causes a stroke that almost kills me. Grey matter twisted, and the enchantress short circuits my brain. Aphasia is a serpent that stings, an ordeal of shadows and contrasts. My mind is filled with jumbled shapes, nonsense words, and mixed-up colors. Demons shout sinister curses. Still cloudy, but I see the sun start to peek through. About the author:
Rochelle M. Anderson lives in Minnesota, USA. She is an attorney who had a severe stroke in 2007 and almost died. She is still disabled with difficulty walking; and because of aphasia struggles with reading and writing. Ms. Anderson has been published in four chapbooks and in an online poetry journal. Writing poetry has helped her recover; and dictation fuels her words. The woods are mysterious with trees that mark the trail. Branches tightly packed, light wanes, and the moon provides no illumination. I am lost without a map or compass. Now nighttime, hear a chorus of frightening sounds. Alone in a hedge labyrinth, unable to find the exit. Disability steals the rainbow, colors grayed and dark. I dream of life before the stroke, when all I knew about the brain was a green gelatin mold for Halloween. I wake up and the nightmare returns. Like Rumpelstiltskin, I stomped my feet and disappeared down a chasm. Will I ever leave my fairy-tale world? About the author:
Rochelle M. Anderson lives in Minnesota, USA. She is an attorney who had a severe stroke in 2007 and almost died. She is still disabled with difficulty walking; and because of aphasia struggles with reading and writing. Ms. Anderson has been published in four chapbooks and in an online poetry journal. Writing poetry has helped her recover; and dictation fuels her words. |
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