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Weekly Contest #57
My mother is a bird. I know this because when I stepped off the plane in Taipei, I saw a streak of crimson against the murky predawn sky in the shape of a bird. She glided towards me, her plumage sailing like a flag. Her wings flapped once, twice, sweeping over the half moon. I hadn’t been frightened. Not even when she landed on the tarmac ground before me, her eyes level with mine. She reminded me of a long-legged crane, except her feathers were every shade of red — scarlet and mahogany and sangari, the colours gleaming underneath the las...
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