Jan 17, 2026 · 12 min · 4 segments
I wrote West Wings in 2015, wanting to try my hand at a modern fable. Something simple on the surface, but carrying a small oddness underneath. It follows a creature who ends up somewhere he never…
A two-headed eagle, grim and golden, plucked him from his mossy home and bore him away.
Below, rivers twisted into shining ropes, Villages shrank to smudges, and the frog's world became a patchwork quilt he was rapidly being lifted away from.
The frog tumbled, through air, through memory, through every fear he'd ever had.
Branch-like wings burst from his sides, not feathered or even metal, but something innate and older than invention, older than thought, a memory his body had been keeping.
The wings caught the wind and the frog ascended, It became a dance of climbing higher and stumbling upwards.
He skimmed rooftops, drew spirals in moonlight, snatched flies faster than hunger could even name.
Wings of cloth, gliders of bent willow and twine, gear-stitched engines made from kitchen pots, a whole arsenal of sky desires.
He flew until he could taste starlight, until the air grew so thin it felt like prayer, until the ground became a rumor he no longer quite believed in.
A two-headed eagle, grim and golden, plucked him from his mossy home and bore him away.
Below, rivers twisted into shining ropes, Villages shrank to smudges, and the frog's world became a patchwork quilt he was rapidly being lifted away from.
The frog tumbled, through air, through memory, through every fear he'd ever had.
Branch-like wings burst from his sides, not feathered or even metal, but something innate and older than invention, older than thought, a memory his body had been keeping.
The wings caught the wind and the frog ascended, It became a dance of climbing higher and stumbling upwards.
He skimmed rooftops, drew spirals in moonlight, snatched flies faster than hunger could even name.
Wings of cloth, gliders of bent willow and twine, gear-stitched engines made from kitchen pots, a whole arsenal of sky desires.
He flew until he could taste starlight, until the air grew so thin it felt like prayer, until the ground became a rumor he no longer quite believed in.
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