J M Barrie Little White Bird Novels & Stories

I held a bird, Wings of shimmering gold. Fly little one, I urged. The bird lay on my palm, As though playing dead. Such breathtaking beauty, In such a frail body. I picked up the beautiful creation, The masterpiece of art. I gave it a name, I became larger than life. I loved the bird, Till she learnt how to soar. My little birdie, Isn't so little anymore. She's grown, She's my Pikachu. The Lost Journals of Eden

This wildcat is driving me crazy, feeling her squeezing my rod is more than I can take. As always hunger drives us on, shamelessly we own each other When the Jet lands two hours later, the pilot silently leaves the cockpit, leaving us alone in our own world. It is early in the morning when we finally crash next to each other, exhausted, and she falls asleep against my chest...

The bird was naïve, thought she could fight against the world which was trapping her. She did not obtain visible scars from that faithful day, only the bars. The bars were her scars to remind her she was nothing, but a caged bird bonded to her master.

White heaven-bound birds were as brilliant rays from wind-dappled sea-water; their brightness amid otherwise infinite blue, gliding as free souls. In each wing-given arc they were the tips of a conductor's wand, a music for both eyes and soul, bringing a wave of sweet earthly joy. It was one of those baby-blue skies, not the psychedelic candy-blue nor the washed out grey so characteristic of wintry mornings. The clouds were as puffs of radiant joy, ready to disperse into the wind, to travel our Earth.