It was a silly game. People stood in a circle holding hands. The Head Master let a few feathers drop and the group had to blow on the feathers so they would not fall on the ground.
The girl had drunk the light brew called Angel Wings all day and felt her brain was a fuzzy mohair ball. In front of her stood a black-haired man. She wished that the feathers would never fall on the floor, so he could stand there for ever, for he was a friendly type and he seemed to genuinely like her. She woke hope. He was gone.
***+++***
A long time ago, she went to Bellagio. The place was grand, and quite empty most of the times. The staff there were nice. She still had a picture of the plume gown she had bought there. Very chic. Aww, the plumes. But then, that was before the Reaver attack on a somewhat quiet Saturday night at Blackburne. Long time ago.
***++++***
Miya's 102 year old aunt, Janice Wingtips, once told Gark: " You know, Garkuyan...Angels have a copyright on wings. You just can't "do wings", like one "does" chocolate cake or snowboarding.
Well, Mrs Wingtips, I'm doing wings. Time to feel the wind in my hair and taste the sweet smell of Liberty.
