The Prompt

Even a stone, picked up and thrown.... can fly.

There they lie, polished by the surf, a jumble of inertia just waiting for the unseen hand that would liberate them. Some pretty, some plain, each with it's own story of how it got there - and why it lies there still. Like stones on a beach, sometimes we let waves push us and grit smooth our edges till we become almost indistinguishable from everyone around us. The lucky may get plucked from obscurity, and soar for a moment for no reason other than that they were in the right place at the right time.

How much better it would be to be a bird with wings of our own.