A/N: Hello! Yes, I deleted the first story of Kestrel (and yes, I changed her last name. I didn't realize that until a little while ago…). I came to think of her as this pathetic, sniveling, whining little Mary Sue, so I decided to scrap the story and start all over again. Some parts of this new story may seem familiar if you read the old one, some parts may not. But I hope that you guys like it anyways. In my mind it's better, at any rate. This first chapter is just to let you have a feel for the new Kestrel and who she is, what she's been through, etc. Apologies for it being so short.
Have fun reading and PLEASE REVIEW (even if it sucks)!!!!!!
Thanks!
t.I.G.R.E.S.S.
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Sky High 11th Grade Honors English Class
Assignment: Introductory Essay.
Welcome to Mrs. Hertz's Honors English class. Write an essay introducing yourself to the class. Some suggestions for writing topics:
-Description of your physical appearance
-Your background
-Your family
-Any pets
-Hobbies or extracurricular activities
-Anything else that's important to you
We want to get to know you better! Please note that this assignment will be read aloud in class. Thank you!
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Introductory Essay
By Kestrel Ramirez
Flight.
How can I possibly describe such a thing? The freedom, the joy, the essence of elation. The sun on your back, the breeze tangled in your hair, the wind whistling through your feathers. Nothing around you, holding you back, just the open sky and the world beneath you. And the peace…there are little sounds but the occasional jet plane, birds going past, and your own wingbeat, steady as your heart.
Maybe now you have a general idea of what it means to be flying.
I am sixteen years old. I guess I'm a little short for my age, standing at 5' 3". My mom's short so I guess it's in the genes. I have brownish-black hair up to my shoulders and what most people would call an "olive" complexion. I have a mixed ethnicity, being 75 Hispanic and 25 white.
Anyways, my name is Kestrel Ramirez. Yeah, my first name is a weird name by society's standards. But you may have guessed already that I'm not like 97 of the American population, much like the rest of the people in this school.
I'm a freak.
You may be thinking, "Wow, she's a little harsh on herself, and us, for that matter." Let me assure you, it's the truth. I don't regret it, not when I'm flying. But when I'm on the ground, bound by gravity and society's rules for being "normal", I must admit that I do. What makes me so different, so strange?
There are many things I could start with. One is the fact that my father was a superhero. Yup, that's right, just like out of the comics. And yes, that's right, was. He was killed four years ago, sacrificing himself to save the world.
Cliché, right?
Welcome to my life, one big cliché after another. The only difference? It's real. All of it.
Back to my father. His name was Gabriel Thomas Ramirez, better known to the world as Hawkfight. He won't be remembered as the strongest or the quickest hero in the world. He wasn't the Commander or Jetstream. He was, however, one of the smartest, the most level-headed, the most resourceful, the most enduring. His powers included the ability to sprout wings at will. When unfurled wingtip to wingtip, they measured around twenty feet of dark, auburn wings. They weren't exactly like birds' wings, though. He could fly at speeds up to 200 miles an hour.
What's more is that my father could commune with any winged thing, and even control them to a certain point. I'll never forget the day that he called down a sparrow hawk, just for me, for my namesake. It's one of the earliest memories I have, of him laughing and smiling and me stroking the burbling little bird on my wrist as it chirped and screeched good-naturedly.
You're wondering, aren't you? How someone could possibly fight and win against villains with those powers? My father trained himself, trained hard, taking on every kind of martial arts that he came across. He was strong, he was cunning, he was tough.
And he died.
When he found out that there was someone trying to implant nuclear bombs in all parts of the world to detonate at the exact same time, my father didn't hesitate. He took on the task before him, and yes, he managed to stop all of the bombs from blowing. But not before giving up his life in the process. The villain went down, and my dad along with him. It's not like the comic books. The real "game" of superheroes is dangerous, deadly, lethal. Don't be fooled by the wise-cracks of Spider-man or the apparent immortality of Superman.
In real life, good people die.
It was harder on my mom, Gail Ramirez. In fact, I don't even know if she'll ever be the same. It's like some part of her died along with him, because after that, her powers left her and never returned. Trauma shock, or something like that. All I know is that for days she was in her room and never came out. I could hear her crying in there at all hours, day and night. My mother used to be Gale, the mistress of storms, but she'd retired long before I was born. I guess that's one of the factors that contributes to the fact that I didn't really inherit her powers, mainly my dad's. Sometimes I can call up a wind or two to aid me in flight, but that's about it.
Anyways, my mother snapped out of it, or at least so she said. She apologized for leaving me alone for so long, and promised to look after me no matter what. But sometimes when I have my wings out I can feel her staring at them with so much emotion, regret, sorrow, bitterness. And I know that's she's not fully over it.
That's right. That's what I inherited from my dad. Some kids have mementos from their deceased ones. Maybe a necklace, or a box, or something of that nature. Well, I have wings. Much like my dad's, only lighter and more reddish. And like him, I can put them away at will. The only trouble is that I hate doing it. I feel…bound, chained, restrained…when I don't have my wings. It doesn't feel right. Due to my reluctance I often have them out at the wrong times. Normal people stare. Super people stare.
Freak.
Whatever. I've learned to deal with it. I don't care as much as I used to. My mom told me that when I was in kindergarten (during that time I was just learning to fly and didn't know how to put my wings away), I would come home crying because the other kids picked on me. Oh, and I also know how to call birds, another gift from my dad.
I'm learning how to survive now. Yeah, I was as sad as my mom was when my dad left our lives. Yeah, I struggled. With everything.
And yeah, it sucks that I'm stuck in this school now.
Just a few months ago, this past June, my mom decided that it would be better if we packed up and moved from my hometown in New Mexico. She wanted to move back to her childhood home, here in Maxville, where she could learn to be a widow in a place where she was familiar and at comfort and ease. But it meant ripping me from my childhood place, where I grew up. Even if I was born and raised till I was four in Maxville it's as familiar to me as the middle of the Sahara Desert is to a seagull. I had to say goodbye to the few friends that I had in New Mexico, and spent this past summer learning how to deal. With everything.
Like I was saying, I'm learning how to survive. Life sucks. You have to learn how to deal with life sucking. Nothing is ever going to be perfect or wonderful or "normal". But that's who I am. One big cliché. Correction, one big winged cliché. As my dad used to say, "Que sera, sera." What will be, will be. What I'm learning is that there are good things and bad things, and that I can make bad things good things.
Flying is one of the good things, and it always will be.
And I won't give up, even when things seem impossible and bleak and hopeless. I will strive to become more than a bird, more than mortal. When something seems to strike me down and kill me, I will rise again.
I'll be a phoenix. Rising from ashes and failures and heartbreaks. You can't keep me down, I'll be revived. I'll recover. That is the last gift my father gave me, the determination to move on. I'm not quite there yet, I'm still just a sparrow hawk. But I will become one, for my father's sake.
So that's who I am, Kestrel Ramirez. I hope this essay is good enough because I'm sure as heck not going to write another one. And if you think I'm going to read this out loud in class, you're crazy. No offense or anything.
-Kestrel