FaeryInAJar

I am an inadequate feather quill, gripped lightly at the base of the spine in your hand. A plain crow feather, in blacks and greys. Ordinary. Made special by you. A stiff spine holds erect the soft, delicate fibers. Otherwise they would droop, fall to pieces, with no will to stand. I am hollow – empty. I could be carried away by the wind and be too inconsequential for you to notice my absence. So easily replaced. Hidden in your grasp is the tip. Pointed. Sharp. A final barbed defense misused by your guiding hand. Dipped into an inkwell, I fill with your blood, which animates me. You press me to the page, spil