Paper Planes
Jasmine Knight
© 2024
Feathers. Ink. Smoke. Moss. Rain.
Tea sitting cold on the stove.
Cat clawing at the door.
All the ingredients of a home.
A small cottage resting amongst the wildflowers on the banks of a bubbling creek is revealed.
A writer’s home. A traitor’s.
A young woman with the rarest of hearts, the most glittering of souls. A young woman whose stories were powerful. Those associated with polite society feared them. Yet, Wineva was driven by an insatiable desire to write her stories down, to tell her tales. But for her efforts she was banished by her father. Forced to flee her home and family.
Legend has it that it all began with a paper plane … and a boy.
***
“Feed me your stories. Fuel me with your words,”  the fire crackled. The hour was late as Wineva sat in her bedroom, writing hand cramped as it gripped furtively onto an inky feather.  She had endured a quiet dinner with her family while her mind flooded with story ideas. She had to write them down quickly before they escaped her, before her parents became aware of them.
‘A noble highwayman falls in love with a fairy…’
Had she ever met any of these characters? On the page her words mixed sweet with savoury, as two opposites came together to make something delicious.
There was a knock on her door.  Wineva sat up as she quickly hid her story in her corset, the ink pot and feather shoved under her bed.
“Lady Wineva?” a familiar voice called, “I’m here to stoke your fire.”
Wineva let out a sigh of relief as she ran to the door to let in her friend.
“For the sake of the Saint Thomas!” she whispered as she let the boy into her room, “I thought you were my mother!”
“I’m truly insulted,” Thomas declared as he made himself at home on her chaise lounge. “So, what’s the story tonight? Is it still the Pirate and the Princess?”
“No. I had to send it last night,” Wineva answered. “My mother was about to walk in, I had to burn it early, sorry.”
Thomas smiled as he watched her pull out her paper from her dress and gather her writing tools from under the bed. She ignored him and continued to write her words.
“Can you tell me a story?” he asked softly.
Wineva looked up from her paper and smiled. “Do you want to hear one about a Highwayman and a Fairy?” she asked.
“Those are my favourite!” he winked.
For the rest of the evening, Wineva told Thomas a story about the Highwayman who had fallen hopelessly in love with a Fairy. She wove the story from her mind and near the end, before the last word was reached, she invited Thomas to continue the story, while she wrote it all down. Together, the two minds knitted the same story, with their different coloured wool, until its natural end.
“It’s perfect!” Wineva smiled as she held up the paper, glowing at her finished story.
Thomas couldn’t help but admire her beauty in the light of the fire. “It’s truly beautiful,” he said softly, his eyes still on her.
“I think it’s ready for the fire.” She sighed before standing to collect an envelope.
“Must we burn it?” Thomas sighed. “You could publish it. Sell it. You could fuel others’ imaginations instead of your fire.”
“You know I can’t Thomas.” Wineva wrote on the envelope then looked up, staring back into her friend’s deep blue eyes. “Besides, if my family knew that I was writing such fantasies, they would take my head… and yours too for reading them.”
Thomas could only watch on as she put the story inside the envelope addressed to ‘The fire - The Lady’s Suite, Blankshire Manor.’ As Wineva kissed the folded paper, Thomas imagined it was his own cheek. Her red lipstick marked the parchment, signed with a kiss, permission to let it burn.         
“Love Wineva,” she whispered in sadness.
Thomas hated to see her cry. Her talent and beauty wasted. “Send them to me,” he announced.
“What?” she asked as she looked up at him.
“Think about it,” he began, “I can only ever see you when I’m invited in by your mother, to stoke your fire and do other chores. And yet I live just across the courtyard, with only your father’s horses for company. How many of your stories do I miss out on? How much more has your fire seen than me?”
The idea made Wineva laugh. “How would I send them to you? Our mail is always checked. Mother reads everything. My father sees all.”
“By air!”  Thomas knew his idea was brilliant. He stood up and grabbed a piece of paper from Wineva’s unburnt pile of blank pages. “My brother once told me about these planes made of paper. They used them to send messages during the Border Wars. Wineva, my dear, you can turn your story into a paper plane and fly it over to me at the stables.”
Wineva watched as Thomas turned the simple piece of paper into a delicate plane. “I always knew you had an incredible mind,” she looked on Thomas completed the last paper fold.
“And you haven’t even seen it fly yet,” he grinned at her before gently flicking his wrist, sending the plane careering around the room.
The two young friends watched on as the paper plane it ventured over the chandelier and swoosh past the framed painting of a scenic cottage nestled amongst the hills, a river flowing past dominating the foreground. Wineva had always admired this painting, made with tiny brush strokes and oil paints. The artist was long gone but her beautiful vision had always inspired Wineva. The painting felt like home. The paper plane landed in her lap, her attention jolted back to the boy, and his wild plan.
“Your stories shall soar high,’ Thomas cheered, and with a slight pause, bowed his head as he declared, “my love.”
Wineva’s smile radiated the room. Her heart was warmer than the fire feeding on her stories. She was full of hope.  
“I…,” she was for but a moment speechless. Her words were lost for the breath of fresh air that filled her heart. She was about to speak when a terrible sound interrupted her.
Three loud, impatient knocks on her door.
“Oh, my mother!” cried Wineva.
“I have lingered too long stoking your fire. She can’t find me still here. She’ll have my head!”
They both quickly ran over to the large window and opened it up. One of the large stone columns defining the mansion’s façade was only in reach to a brave soul willing to jump.
“You promise to write to me soon?” Thomas said as he stepped out through the window.
“When it arrives…” Wineva whispered as she watched Thomas jump across and grip his hands and feet to the curves of the cold stone, “maybe it will be about a criminal escaping out of a lady’s window.”
“Or a knight might be more fitting!” Thomas teased as he gallantly made his way to the ground. He called back up to her in hushed tones, “I cannot wait to read your dreams my dear Wineva.”
Wineva quickly closed her window, latching the hook, just as her mother walked in. She wasn’t quick enough.
“Wineva, you’ll catch your death with the window open,” Lady Blankshire warned. “You should be asleep, why are you not?”
“I wanted some fresh air,” Wineva lied as she felt her cheeks turn red.
“You look very flushed,” her mother noted with concern. “Are you ill?”
Wineva tried not to smile as she lay back on her bed, feigning an illness. Thoughts of her reader danced around inside her head. “I think I may be coming down with something.”
***
The following evening as the moon rose above the horizon and gently illuminated the stables and grounds, Wineva watched through her open window. She listened intently to the murmuring crowd gathered downstairs in the ballroom, as the pianist gently gained their attention with a melody so beautiful as it floated up through the night into her room and formed a tear in her eye.
She lit a candle and took out a piece of her best parchment.
‘This story will be about a musician who created a lover with the magical notes of a song,’ she told the paper. Her heart pounded against her chest as she wrote her words down, the ink flowing through each letter, each word, creating a story for her reader.
The piano stopped. Her rhythm was interrupted by the cheering of the wealthy patrons below. The melody began again. Wineva blew gently across the parchment then folded her story into a paper plane, just as Thomas had taught her. She sat back and admired her craft. She could see there was one more thing to she needed to write own. With her feather quill, she wrote across the wings:
For Thomas,
The stables outside my window.
Wineva kissed the plane and walked over to the same window where she had said goodbye to its recipient. Slowly and quietly, she opened the latch and pushed outwards on the glass framed window. Breathing in the fresh night air her eyes quickly adjusted to the moonlit surrounds. With a small flick of her wrist, just like Thomas had shown her, she sent the plane out to the world, and she hoped, over to the stables. She watched it soar, guided by moon beams, then circling down towards her destiny.
Thomas was listening to the music coming from the big house. He imagined the well-dressed landowners all gathered around the piano, some would be dancing. Others would be talking of their riches. As he stood quietly at the stable door he stared up at the window he had only the previous night, bravely jumped out of. His ankles and knees were still aching, but not as much as his heart.  Out of the night sky, a shimmering white bird hovered above him. As it neared, he knew that his teachings had succeeded.
The paper plane landed squarely at the feet of the stable boy.
Thomas picked up his story and smiled back at Wineva, who was balanced in a very unladylike manner, half hanging out of her window, waving down to her reader. Her smile shone like the stars above. Thomas gave Wineva a bow as she awkwardly climbed back inside and closed her window.
Later that night, when all of his chores were completed, Thomas read his story. He dreamed her story while he slept. When he awoke the next morning he felt the magic of a shooting star, full of hope. His love for Wineva, for that is what it was, love, burned brighter than all the light of the universe.  
*
Dearest Wineva,
I adored the tale of the musician, do tell me another.
Thomas.
*
My dear Thomas,
I’m glad you found joy in such a tale. Tonight, I shall tell you one of Fae versus man.
Sincerely, Wineva
*
As the early morning sunrays made their debut, Wineva slipped out of her bed to wait by the window.  As the cool air wafted in, a gentle breeze brought with it a most welcome paper plane. Wineva unfolded the creases and read:
*
To my most talented love,
I found myself dreaming of your tales. Your story was a shooting star, piercing my heart.
Sincerely yours, Thomas.
*
To my most beloved reader,
Here is your next dream.
Forever your writer, Wineva.
 
The paper planes carried the hope of growing desire, but when a reply was not received through Wineva’s open window, she felt her heart had been pierced.

Thomas sat in the hay, holding onto his paper plane. He was unsure about sending this one back. He had always admired Wineva, her talent with words, her imagination, and her strength. But now he felt himself to be bewitched by her stories, like a siren song, they distracted his attention, he was getting lazy with his duties in the stable. Thomas could only think of Wineva, and he had only been thinking of her as his ‘wife’ – he had called her, ‘my love’, ‘dear’, and ‘my lady’. He was shocked to realise that he had found what poets so often lamented - Love.
Two days had passed, and Thomas hadn’t yet sent back a paper plane.
Dark thoughts clouded her mind. She struggled to write anything without her muse. Maybe he didn’t have the same spark in his heart when he thought of her, as she did when her thoughts were of Thomas. Wineva could feel the tears stinging the back of her eyes just as she heard the gentle flutter of something landing in her fireplace. She turned from her seat to see a paper plane dusted with soot; her heart beat quickly as she rushed over to the letter.
*
My love,
It is with great fear that I admit you are what I find myself dreaming about.
You are my wish, my dream, my darling.
Do I have the privilege of being in your heart?
Thomas.
*
It was true, he loved her. Wineva couldn’t believe it, although she wanted to. They had teased each other enough about ‘love’ but it never seemed their friendship would go further than a literary meeting of minds.
She had written about love and dreamt of its power, but did she realise the power of her own words?
Thomas was indeed in love with her, and she loved him too.  Wineva sat at her desk, inspired to write a sonnet about two dreamers. Her heart  raced as she realised words were no longer adequate. She decorated the parchment with carefully painted flowers. As the water colours dried, she folded her dreams into the paper plane which would carry her desires. She sealed it with a kiss, her lip rouge so red it could have been the very blood pumping through her heart. Wineva held her breath as everything she hoped for, gently floated through the air, swishing rapidly downwards toward the stables.
Waiting on a chestnut horse, Thomas caught the paper plane from the air and held it to his chest. Nudging his noble steed to step outside into the sunlight, Thomas waved quickly to Wineva who responded with a small nod of her head before she quickly closed her window lest her mother spied them. He led his horse back into the shadows of the stable and read the note on its wings highlighted with its ruby red marking: -
*
My dear Thomas,
You ought to know that you are the only rhythm to my beating heart.
You are my muse.
I have written you the words of our love in the Sonnet enclosed.
With admiration,
Yours
Wineva
***
 
The two young lovers continued exchanging their letters, words, and stories for another seven days, and seven nights. Until the day Wineva’s mother had allowed her to wander alone throughout the vast grounds of her birthright.
Wineva enjoyed her freedom of movement on this fine, warm day. When she spied Thomas from across the garden she felt a sense of complete bliss. Thomas sensed her gaze before the moment their eyes met, and then both felt the same melody arise in their hearts, as if the hidden stars of the day had joined a string quartet.
For every love story, must there be a villain? For Wineva and Thomas it was the woodcutter of Blankshire Manor.
Tired from cutting wood all day to heat the manor’s many fireplaces the woodcutter found a quiet corner of the stables to rest upon a warm stack of hay. Stretching out with a yawn his fingers touched the wings of a paper plane sent earlier in the day, for the absent stable boy to find upon his return.
Plans for the two young lovers to run away together were revealed, and the woodcutter knew that his employers, Lady and Sir Blankshire, would be very interested to read this. They may even reward him, he thought. A reward so great he quickly recovered from his exhaustion, tidied himself up and walked quickly and furtively toward the entrance to the great manor.   
Thomas returned and sat in the hay, waiting for her paper plane to arrive. He didn’t realise Wineva had already sent it. He didn’t realise it had been intercepted. All he knew was that the roar coming towards him was the sound of the manor’s security guards.  
“What’s going… ?” Thomas’s question was cut off by a punch to his head from one of the guards.
“You are to remain silent, scum!” the guard commanded. “You are to come with us by order of Lady and Sir Blankshire!”
Two guards dragged Thomas off the hay stack, shackled him, and force marched him over to the guard house, where a small cell and a locked door awaited him.
Thomas could barely see from the blood fillings his eyes, but he was sure he saw the woodcutter standing next to Sir Blankshire who was holding onto… yes, it was a paper plane.
He felt the rage boil inside him. The betrayal stung his bones. He feared moreso for his true love Wineva, because if Lady Blankshire wasn’t standing with her husband, that meant she must have been dealing with the author of the letter.
Wineva sat by her open window waiting for Thomas’s responding plane when she was startled by her mother’s abrupt entrance.
“Mother, what is…?”
But Lady Blankshire didn’t allow her daughter to finish. She slapped her daughter across the face sending Wineva to the ground.
“How could you?” Lady Blankshire cried. “How could you write such wretched things to that boy? How dare you make plans with someone of his kind!”
Wineva looked up at her mother with eyes full of tears, “What are you saying?”
It was then that she heard the commotion coming from the stables below. Wineva looked out of her window to see Thomas being hauled away by the guards.
“Mother, what have you done? What are they doing to him?” She glared at her mother’s vile face.
“So, it is true!” her mother spat. “You care for him.”
Wineva’s eyes turned black and cold as stone. She stepped closer to her mother. “What are you going to do to him?” she asked, fearing the answer.
“He made you turn against your family; he has taken your virtue, you have betrayed our family’s standing in this town,” and with a wicked grin, “he shall pay for your betrayal with his death.”
Wineva was sickened by these words. Her own mother contriving to kill her beloved? How could this be? An anger roaring inside her kept her from falling over, crying into a heap. She knew her mother meant every word. She realised she had no power against her.
“I deserve to die just as much as he does!” Wineva yelled. “Those were my words! He is only a boy. Do not penalise Thomas because he loved my stories. Do not murder him because I am your only daughter, and he is but a stable boy.”  
“You shall pay in other ways,” her mother hissed, “but you should not have tempted him into such a forbidden love. If he truly loves you, he will accept his fate without argument.”
“Your view of love is hideous,” Wineva declared, “but even worse is your perspective of me.” And with that Wineva ran across to her window and climbed down the collum just as Thomas had only a week before.
Lady Blankshire screamed after her daughter.
Wineva’s father joined the chorus. He had entered the room in time to hear inly his daughter’s criticisms. How dare she, he thought. To think we would have left her this inheritance only to be squandered on any lowly fellow.
Sir Blankshire yelled after his only child, “If you do not come back right now and apologise to your mother, if you do not admit that this disgusting boy took advantage of you, then do not…”, he took a deep breath, “Do not ever come back to this household. Your stories are wicked. You are wicked. You are not welcome here anymore.”
Wineva had landed heavily on the ground and with shaking legs, she hid behind the stable as she listened to her father’s words. “He doesn’t know me or love me, he doesn’t understand”.
Her mind made up, her legs recovered, she dashed off towards the guard house prison.
***
 
How she managed to evade the guards and sneak into his cell is a story for another time.  All you need to know is that on the last night of Thomas’ days, she laid with him in his arms. They dreamt together of a life that could have been.
***
Wineva Blankshire was declared missing on the same day that a young stable boy was convicted of stealing, and sentenced to hang until death, as was the punishment in those days. The priest who signed the death notice, wrote that the criminal’s cheek was marked with a ruby red smudge.
It was never to be written in the historical archive that this was the kiss of blood from his beloved Wineva. She was never to be seen again in the town of her birth. Eight years later Wineva was declared dead, and her birthright was transferred elsewhere. It doesn’t matter where, for now.
***
I look back over my story and wish upon all the stars that he was here with me now in this cottage by the river that we dreamt about together. I have made a promise to keep him alive in my stories, so it is only fair that I send this to him now.
***
A young woman whose spirit was as warm as the sun, carefully folded a heavy parchment into the shape of a paper plane. She kissed its wings with her ruby red lips. Tear drops stained the paper as she left the cottage behind her and headed towards the river.

Give up. You will never be good enough.
How many stories go untold, projects forgotten, or dreams destroyed simply because people listen when they’re told they will never be good enough? This affront sometimes escaping from the lips of a parent, teacher, or even perhaps your own.

Why does it deter you from creating something beautiful?
 
How do you know? How do they know if you’re not given the chance to try? To learn. To grow.
 
Creating is all about trial and error, isn’t it? 
 
‘You’re wrong!’ Jono declared. His paint brush caressing the canvas, each stroke getting louder to block out the coarseness of criticism. ‘You’re telling this now to the kindergartener whose pictures and paintings you hung on the fridge; the primary schooler whose art you gave a gold-star; the high schooler whose photograph you took when he won the art competition. Don’t you realise it starts with the scribbles and it ends with art? If I’d listened, if I’d stopped, I’d never have made it to where I am now.’ 
 
‘But you need to stop Jono. This hobby will never get you anywhere in life.’ Jono’s father huffed. Pressing his fingers to his temples he tried to explain, ‘I was a writer once: a childish dream that I could make a living from it. No matter how hard I tried, or how many hours I spent typing away until my fingers bled, it was never good enough. They hated my work. I hated my work. I burnt out. Unhappy. Embarrassed. I had to quit and get a real job.’
 
‘Writing is a real job! Painting is a real job!’ Jono exhaled, placing his paintbrush down. ‘All creators have their ups-and-downs: wish they could change aspects of their previous works; be noticed more for their efforts. It is routine, even normal. Do we give up at every down?
You know there are pieces in my art gallery I can't even bear to look at. I look back on some of my art that I used to be so proud of only to realise it was shit!
I realise I’m not perfect. That my art is not perfect. I learn from the criticism. I try to understand where I went wrong. I apologise to those I’ve hurt through my work – even if it was unintentional. I apologise for being so harsh on myself.  But I don’t give up! I will never give up even if people tell me I will never be good enough.’

The room fell silent as the father considered his son’s words. Still, he attempted to shift the younger man’s viewpoint. ‘A year's worth of work is only a day's worth of entertainment. You waste hours of your life only for someone to scroll through and nod or walk past and keep going. Your art, while full of meaning is ultimately meaningless.’

​‘That is a view that can be held, though I firmly disagree,’ Jono replied.  He took his painted canvas off the easel and set it aside. ‘When a creator dies their work transcends time itself, resonating with people from all parts of the world regardless of age, class, or background. It may take me years to finish, but they are my years, and my art will exist beyond me.  I understand my art isn’t for everyone – and some may not even know of its existence, but for those who do stop by and take a chance to appreciate it, their lives could be impacted in countless ways, just as my life is impacted through its creation. And that is worth not giving up.’
 Edison Bridges © 2024 

I sat in the dimly lit office, the steady hum of the army base outside even within the quaintest hours of the night a distant reminder of the world at war. These moments I held dear to me. The moments where I could ignore the turmoil of the world and lose myself within the words of letters. Words can dance off the page and show the projection of the heart and mind. It is one of the only things within my own heart that reminds me there is still a world out there. That there is still one waiting for me after all this. That one day, life will not just be the common mantra of deciding whether my enemy sees their family, or letting myself see mine if the jarring sound of bombs and artillery shells ever end.
Handling the piled correspondence within my free time is such a gift to me. Many wonder why I choose to volunteer for such a task when I could distract myself with things that do not correlate with war, but they don’t see what I see. They don’t see the warmth in the words that I feel during the cold nights, they don’t see the sparking hope gleaming off the pages when a wife finds out her husband is safe, and they don’t see the importance of giving that to the world when their daily life is filled with the darkness of death all around them.
Throughout these letters however, one name particularly presents itself the most, especially within the undelivered section. 
Charles Miller.
Much like the bleeding of the ink of these frayed letters, written amongst various hands, his named bled into conversations amongst the base. His name pricked the ears and tongues of almost every soldier I have ever known, particularly due to his now infamous title that has plagued his identity; ‘The Lost One.’ His name is the only one that can send my hands into hesitation. Unlike other soldiers missing in action, neither his body was found nor existence ever confirmed despite his name befalling every person’s ear. Unlike most MIAs, he has more letters written to him, more than any other, all marked ‘URGENT’ yet undelivered letters sent to the squadron. Every letter contained desperate pleas, screaming off the pages and into my chilling curiosity. Every sender squabbling for informational updates and concerns for his wellbeing. 
With every letter, my own curiosity struck. How could a forgotten or maybe even imaginary man fall into the heartstrings of so many letters and stories? It wasn’t until I read further into these letters that my curiosity turned into action. I noticed an unsettling pattern. After the various writers shared an anecdote or two to potentially stimulate remembrance of better times, the stories turned into troubling incidents that suggested something more had occurred within Charlie’s life. Something large. 
“Mr Ellis?” 
The meek voice jump started my mind back into reality. 
“Yes Private?” 
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but I think it’s best you retire for the afternoon. I’ll take over.”
I stretch within the rickety chair and wearily view my surroundings. The candle I was using to light up the space was on its last legs, weakly flittering through the whispers of the wind before succumbing to the breeze’s strength. 
“I suppose you’re right,” I lazily admitted, standing up and dusting off my hat that hung on the wooden hook on the door. “Don’t stay up too long either. You never know when you’ll be needed.” 
Once I shut the door and trudged down towards the quarters, I pulled out a small notebook I kept within my back pocket and scribbled down my latest findings.
October 26th, 1943
Dolly May (writer 6) describes Charles Miller partaking in troubling conversations about a confidential mission before his disappearance.
October 30th, 1943
Jack Thompson (writer 8) recalls a suspicious figure within Miller’s quarters.

It’s unhealthy. I know that. Jotting down and documenting this stranger’s life that has already been lost to the testament of time and war, but something within me burns to find conclusion. The way these various writers describe him, their pain, needing to know more, makes me hold onto the frayed photo of my family tighter. It reminds me of how they write to me and how so many have written to their loved ones in the hopes of believing they’ll come back to them. It purged my head and etched into my empathy in ways I cannot describe. 
However, now I have finally collected enough information to turn my pondering into conclusion. 
To finally find if the lost can ever truly be recovered. 
End.
Tamika Retallack © 2024