The professor strewed our graded quizzes across the table and we swarmed them after class, a throng too impatient to consider the tragedy of the commons as it related to wasted time. I struggled for access as the boy in the red down jacket fished out his own quiz, paused, and grabbed a second, making to hand it back to me over the sea of bobbling heads. It's difficult to say what happened next, as I can only guess at the motivation, but someone—did they think he was stealing my paper, or was it a curious impulse, an exhibition of malice?—yanked back on the boy's hood and he stumbled, the jacket falling askew to reveal one of the tumid lumps erupting from his shoulder blades.
Those closest ripple-gasped away from him. He bolted, face curled inward at the end of his bowed spine. A nervous laughter jumped between mouths before the tittering mass cleared out of the hall and I was left to retrieve my trampled quiz from the floor. The professor hadn't once looked up from his grading.
Something caught my eye as I stooped. Gingerly I picked up the little matted feather and slipped it into my pocket. Back in my dorm, I laid it on my desk to dry. It was barred and mottled like a young gull's feather, a far cry from the pristine white of an angel's.
And yet, it still felt holy.
YOU ARE READING
Transfiguration
Short StoryA mysterious boy who never takes off his jacket. A temple where men talk directly to angels. An extremely boring college economics course. Curiosity gives way to confusion as our nameless, genderless narrator learns the reason behind their classmate...
