The place: a hilltop clearing. A swath of red earth like a grazed knee.

No trees above her, that was important. Her legs ached from the climb and the rips in her trousers revealed cuts like red line revisions. Sore arms dropped her machete with a thud.

Boots caked with mud and soaked from fording streams paced the ground, smoothing and straightening, marking the space like a circled full stop.

Kneeling on the smooth yellow surface, she unzipped her rucksack. From layers of cloth she pulled out orbs—smooth as glass and revealing bright shards of life within—distillations of experience, emotion, and fancy.

Her Stories.

As she unwrapped them, she noticed how each contained a singular captured beauty. How they slid from sweating fingertips to land on the cloth like caught fish.

She hoped they glinted brightly enough. That they would catch the attention of sharp discerning eyes.

She tilted her head up and let out a high piercing coo.

Then she folded her legs beneath her, fixed her eyes skyward, and waited.

They came soft in the gloaming on broad feathered wings, detached from the trees to darken the sky and swoop down on her catches.

Naia’s heart fluttered. She hoped that sharp talons would scoop up her work, gather them into collections and carry them far.

She knew their beaks contained powerful sensors. That from a distance of ten kilometres, they could smell a good story.

Gusts of wind blew back her hair as the Editors landed.

She was beginning to distinguish them—the swift birds of the small presses and the vast wingspans and stout beaks of established journals, birds that languished in the luxury of nests filled with glinting submissions.

There were curious birds. She saw the shimmering blue-grey head, fierce beak and yellow-green plumage of a Nicobar pigeon. A zebra-striped hoopoe spread an orange crest tipped with black and examined the pile before it.

Theirs were the experimental journals, the ones she caught scrapings of sky and chunks of moon for, pushing her work to great heights and depths because they sought something daring.

There were other birds she had her eyes on. Peacocks shimmering blue and birds of paradise with long trailing tailfeathers.

These were birds of contests with high profile judges and tantalizing prizes—their plumage was dazzling, but the odds were high they would toss back her orbs.

The hornbill screeched and the birds took flight. The sky darkened with flapping wings and again became clear.

She gathered up the rest of the Stories and began her descent.

Two moons later, she hiked to the landing site.

When gloaming softened the sun’s glare and the lines of the trees blended into into shadow, she heard the flap of wings.

Like a swift heavy downpour, stories fell, in hard lumps, undigested. But a single set of talons released a bundle, wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string.

She tore off the packaging. Nestled in straw was her orb, set in a pleasing arrangement of kindred stories.

A Trove.

Her orb had been copied and winged across the world.

She knew that somewhere, on the banks of a river flowing with snowmelt or under a tree of low-hanging pomegranates, someone would open the Trove and see her orb. That as they lifted it to the light, the orb would open, that the shards of life within would transmit feelings. She did not know if the Viewer would laugh, rage or weep but she knew they would be moved.

With the wide flapping paper there was payment—small glinting shards that caught the light, and feathers—black tipped with white, smoky grey or a rare hue like the shimmer of a twilight lake.

These she gathered and took back to her own nest— down the paths she had hacked through the brush, over gushing streams, across the seas and further, where pines grew black and green, the earth was dark and the leaves were pointed. An empty space yawned open to her key.

At her smooth darkwood desk, she emptied her pockets. She spread out shards, bright, jagged and incongruous. Experiences, impressions and gleanings from her encounters.

This time, she decided, she would raise her Art to new heights.

She examined and adjusted. Deepened the opening sorrow, heightened the transformation and added a blaze of joy. Then she set it on her palm and gazed. Within lay a tiny, immaculate world. Deep brooding blues descended in a whirlwind, then shifted to fiery orange and amber glints.

This one, she decided, was the most inspiring yet. As she held it aloft, she imagined warm air stirring, the rush of wings and the flexing of talons as her catch was carried skyward. Swirling with potential that lay waiting to be shared.