His Wounded Bird Novels & Stories

"Mommy, Birdie won't die, right? She can't die, can she?" Tears welled up in Vincent's eyes as he spoke, "Mommy, you have to save Birdie." Larissa lowered her head, gently smoothing Birdie's messy hair, a trace of guilt appearing on her face. If only she had arrived a little sooner, Birdie wouldn't have been in trouble. Birdie's wounds were too grave. Even her medical skills seemed useless now, Birdie's breath a fading whisper. Without getting a response from Larissa, Vincent's young face stiffened.

Taking a closer look, I realize it's a phoenix. I had always thought they existed only in myths but it seems they're indeed real. The bird meets eyes with me and screeches in pain, as if calling for help. I quickly pick it up and discover that it's wounded. There's an arrow sticking out of its chest and the area seems to be burning up fast. I have to do something. I rush back to where my duffle bag is with the bird still in my arms. It continuously screeches in pain and I set it down gently.

I scoop it carefully in my hand, examining its wound - a blade cut. “Max, get it to the healer”, I say frantic as the bird whimpers in my hand. It bows its head tugging at the inner wings, as he comes up with a small paper rolled between its beak. I retrieve the paper, drawing lines on his head, as it goes still in my hand. Max picks the bird, getting it to the healer. I take a lungful of breath, this is not gonna be good news. The piece of paper burns in my hand, it’s covered with the concoction of the war, I unroll the piece in my hand,

I was propped up, my back screaming, but I was up. ​Wendy set the tray on my lap. It was a thick, carved piece of wood, and on it sat a small roasted bird, bread, and a mug of broth. I didn't wait. I tore into the bird with my good hand, the meat so tender it fell off the bone. It was the best thing I had ever tasted. I ate like a starved animal, because I was one. I was healing, and my body demanded fuel. ​"So," I said, my mouth half-full. "Tell me. What's the pack saying?"

"Not today." I stepped closer, careful not to startle her. The bird in her hands was broken. Its wing was bent unnaturally, its feathers ruffled and slick with blood. It made a faint, pitiful sound as it struggled to breathe. Arya stroked its tiny head with a finger, her eyes locked on it with a kind of grief that didn't belong to something so small. The sight of her made my heart ache viciously. So, I crouched beside her. "You're not supposed to be out of bed."

Faline rushed over to it, the wild bird tweeting in panic at the sight of a human. “It’s okay," she hummed softy as she carefully untangled the jay with no care for the thorns pricking her fingers. Faline had to grip it gently yet sternly so the bird couldn’t trash around and hurt itself while she inspected it for injuries. Seeing no serious wounds, the Knight smiled in relief. Faline opened her hands, and the jay quickly took flight. Blue eyes glinting in the moonlight followed the bird as it fluttered through the branches.

Pawn Clara gently caressed the bird's wings and wanted to talk to him, to which he made a loud noise as if answering her words. With one blow, she separated the piece of wood from his wing, due to which blood immediately gushed out, and some splashes fell on the ground. "It will not hurt to fly now," Pawn Clara said fondly while caressing him. She knew that he would get injured. She didn't want him to suffer. She took a deep breath and released a soft whistle. The bird flew a little high with his bleeding wing. A tear rolled down her cheek. She felt horrible knowing it had hurt like that for her little friend.

I was a human sacrifice, yet an ancient blood pact bound me to Lucian Voss, the most feared vampire prince of the Night Realm. Any pain inflicted upon me would befall him tenfold. When consecrated silver cut my palm, the flesh burned from his hand. When a vampire lord forced poison down my throat, Lucian woke screaming, tore him apart, and burned his estate to the ground. After that, no vampire dared touch me. Until Lucian entered his once-a-century blood sleep. Duchess Seraphina, the pureblood vampire who had desired Lucian for five hundred years, broke into my chamber and pressed a red-hot silver brand against my chest. “A lowborn human sacrifice will never be worthy of our prince.” I wat

When I gaze upwards into the dark night, I strain my eyes hard to see a giant explosion of green light illuminating the sky. Then there are a series of sounds that catch my eyesight. I see a black crow on my porch. It's trying to manoeuvre its way through the wood panels, and I see blood on his feet as he leaves tiny footsteps in his path. Then he falls face front, and the series of hiccups of the bird lying there in the chilly twilight make me get out of the bed. I'm wearing my nighttime t-shirt and socks, so I turn on the light in the doorway area to see if there is anyone outdoors. When I'm sure there's not a single soul taking a walk or something, I step out to help the poor bird. I coll

Warm lighting. Harold Beck appeared onscreen wearing a lavender shirt and a modest smile. “I know what it’s like to be misunderstood. To carry mistakes. To want to be better.” “At Lighthouse, we believe every scar tells a story. And every story deserves peace.” The camera cut to wide-eyed teenagers in group therapy, actors likely paid to cry on cue. “We’re not here to judge. We’re here to listen.” The final image? A glimmering quote in script font: “Wounds can bloom, too.”