The Feather Coat- Free Short Story

It was as he left for work upon the sun’s falling hour that he saw her. There against a lamp post, the woman with the feather cloak. Her hair was trimmed into a bob, feather-like in its own right, while all she wore was the coat and a skirt of similar color. And that color was wonderful, for it was countless and one all the same, a beautiful black that seemed to hold the world. Her eyes could not be seen, but the light shone bright upon her smiling lips. It was a smile of understanding, of one who would listen to his worries and passions while living a life filled with her own. Her hair, cloak and character were a beacon to any blessed with her sight.

His work meant nothing to her, for she could make him more than a tool to be replaced at any moment, so he walked to her, using all his might to not run and seem a fool. Yet despite never taking his eyes away, when he stood under the light, she was gone. All that was left was a feather on the ground.

The lover held it close, finding the smell as wondrous as its color, at once like countless flowers he couldn't name, the smell of a woman's hair pressed up against him, and so much more.

The lamplight flashed and he heard a voice, like an angel, a singer and husky actress all the same. It was hers, he knew, yet it came from the feather. 

“Love is not found so easily in the open and light,” the feather said, “but if you are willing to search in dark and hidden places, you will find what you seek.” 

Before him now stood a wall he had never seen before, upon a building he never knew. Despite his uncertainties, he only hesitated a little, for what is a life, lonely and uneventful, but muck to be cleaned. The lover went to the wall, inattentive to the light fading behind. The building had no door, but love is not meant to be found easily, he now knew. He pushed hard against it, yet instead of pushing back, as walls should, it fell inside itself. 

Inside was a hidden room with a bright light and new feather. The revealing light showed him the exterior world,  a crossing road that led outside the little town. Its place here was odd, but that only made it clear his efforts were shining true. 

He entered with little fear, his love stronger than any uncertainty. By the feather he stepped, beneath the gentle illuminance. It was her feather, he knew, with its color all and one. Further into the room he saw a new light, beyond a path somehow darker than the growing void outside, with three feathers, and three doors to accompany them. Though his secure life, bland and lonely as it was, called to him, he entered this dark and walked through the hall’s lightless chill: past the watching gazes of wide-eyed creatures he cared not to acknowledge. 

In the colored presence of light once more, he drew a breath of relief. His love was nigh. 

The three doors were each of different tone and design, the feathers below with differences of their own. The left door was black with a purple rim and a feather gently curved by hand, the middle a basic brown, the feather straight, without the slightest curve or blemish, and the right was a vibrant green and orange with a feather twisted by heavy winds. Where could she wait? The middle door was an obvious choice, its lack of distraction or obstruction showing simple utility, and the straightness of the feather purposeful in its presentation. 

The feather speaks, “that could be I beyond the door, waiting to love you true, or it could be a false, one who presents perfect normalcy only to reveal the beast within, pure black in eyes with teeth sharp and jagged.” 

It was true, he realized, if only one was his love, the other two must be enemies of love, wishing to drag him with false comforts and devour him. A door too normal oft has something to hide. So he looked to the right door with its vibrant colors and twisted feather. It shows its true self: wild, vibrant, and without disguise. 

The feather speaks again, “that could be I beyond this door, my truth exposed in all its wonder, or it could be a false, copying my essence and flaunting it with too many feathers and too many teeth.” 

The lady and her coat were subtle in their wonder, he knew, not so vibrant it became gauche and overdone. This could not be her work either. 

He hears the tapping of hooked talons behind him in the unseeable dark. 

He must go for the left door, for it could be the only place his love would wait. Its black and purple is striking yet calm, its feather curved but not overdone. Yet as he rushes to the door, the feather speaks a final time, “That could be I beyond this door in my simple, elaborate beauty, waiting to cherish you till we die, or it could be a false who waits between one truth and another, with hopes to consume your life in its undecided ponderance.” 

He could not see the lie in this, as the act of subtlety could be an inability to decide one’s truth, a sign of one who rushes in hope of another’s ignorance. 

He ran back to the right door, honesty a sign of its validity, but then to the middle, for in modestness she may have discarded shallow attractions, then back to the left, as she could understand attractions' necessity, yet not desire to throw away her character.

Back and forth he went, not remembering why he was in such a rush, nor the wide-eyed creatures slowly entering the light.