Let The Feathers: A Short Story

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Let the Feathers Fall

Sorry guys you’re stuck in the goblins grisly nightmare,” said someone from the mouth of the cave. A penguin was perched on a boulder with a hint of daring in its golden-green gaze. I recognized the voice, which was more ladylike than you’d expect from an arctic, flightless bird. “Sage!” I cried. The penguin bobbed its head. “May I come in?” I figured that was her way of asking if any freaky monsters, goblins, or trolls were plotting in the shadows. “All clear.” “Awesome.” She hopped off the rock and waddled inside. “Like the duds?” “Sure,” I replied. “But why a penguin?” “Well, I saw one at the zoo and loved its sophisticated looks. Besides, black-and-white is the new red for fall.” She patted her torpedo-shaped hips. “So I tried the body for size and . . . well, it just felt right. Had to have it. They’re chic fowl, don’t you think?” “Ah yeah, sure,” Mason agreed. “Chic is the first word that pops into my mind when I think of a macaroni penguin.” Sage grinned peering down at our empty fists. “A little birdie told me you were searching for the scepter.” I began to explain about the wolf and the
I passed Mason like an antelope, hurdling fallen logs and ducking low branches, tracking the path until my lungs blazed. Finally, the woods fell away and we broke into an open field. I was deep in thigh-high grass when cracks appeared in the ground. Where I had been standing, the earth dissolved, rocks crumbling as if broken apart by an unseen sledgehammer, chinks of the sky fell around us like confetti. The whole landscape was bending and caving in, the essence of life unraveling. “Look out!” Mason warned. An ancient oak tree crashed and crumpled to dust, scattering in the wind. We barely made it to the other side before the field, sank into a chasm. “We need to hurry,” Mason said. “Yeah, but there’s no