I'm currently shopping this one out to editors, so if it mysteriously disappears it's because I've sold the rights to it and cannot have it published on the interwebs. (The lack of ability to have indents is driving me crazy. Is anyone more skilled with this medium able to tell me if I can cheat someway and get a five-space indent in front of all of my paragraphs?)

The rush of wind passes beneath me; sky, blue and unmarred by cotton clouds, is what I swim through. I beat my wings, struggling for the heavens. I feel the air currents tug at my feathers, pulling and pushing me to higher grounds. The world is far below me; mountains are made molehills and trees dwarfed by distance. Molehills turn to valley and valley to forest; one after another the elms and oaks retreat from my vision. I spread my tail feathers and let my wings out to their fullest. A powerful gust and I am drawn upon the golden sun, who kisses me with her pale lips.

Forest gives way to ocean, and soon and I am encompassed by blue. The distinction between sea and sky is forgotten, and I lose touch with the pull of the world. I fly simply free, burdened not by thought nor gravity. The waves have long since vanished, their constant war with the shore forgotten in the midst of the endless sea. The winds fall silent, and I glide through the mirrored nothingness. Time passes covertly, and I fly ceaselessly until the horizon crashes back into my existence. Upon this reborn horizon glitters a speck that grows into something green and perfect. It is a jewel, a gem the size of a continent.

Black wings, they are my wings.

Black beak, this is my beak.

I am the Raven.

Folklore tells of my creation of the world, my devouring of souls, my feathers acting as the link to eternity. All these and more do they whisper of me. Yet I am no autumn deity, losing my grip on the world and her people. I am the Raven.

As I draw near the emerald cliffs, they fracture, the world shattering and breaking beneath the weight of reality.

And I awaken.



I am still here.


Gray walls, black bars, no window to see if that clarion blue still rests in the sky, or if its face has been marred by streaking clouds the color of my cell block.

I wake and find I am still imprisoned. The freedom I dreamt is still a dream. Pulling the rough sheets away from my body, I turn and sit up on the bed. To my right is a toilet; to my left is a solid steel door with a small Plexiglas and wire window. My only view from this room is the opposite wall of the cell block.

Before me is a small desk. It has everything worth caring about on it. Books rest beside nudie magazines under the unforgiving halogen light that blinks into existence at the beginning of each day. I hear the harsh voices of the guards echo through the length of the block I am in.
Groggily I stand, the dream still vivid as blood in my mind. To the desk I slink where my typewriter rests. On a steno pad beside the machine, I see a note that I wrote yesterday.

“Same dream. I was flying. I was free…”

How many times has that dream come to haunt me in the past five years since my conviction? The days have marched slowly forward, each one a lame mule dragging the burden which broke its back. I have come to a familiar routine:

Wake

Pen my dreams to paper

Dress

Shuffle out to eat breakfast

Read (I only have four books: Poetry by Rumi, a book on Buddhism, a thesaurus, and a dictionary.)

Write

Shuffle out to eat lunch

Practice Taiqiquan in the courtyard

Return to my cell

Wait for dark

Write

Sleep

Dream of Freedom

Each day falls into this blissful routine. I had nearly memorized my poetry and Buddhist teachings; the thesaurus and the dictionary I used for my writings. It is futile to count days; better that today be washed away in the sickly gray that surrounds me. Two springs ago, I stopped counting months. When your sentence is twenty to life, you begin focusing on larger chunks of time. I’d rather spend eighty seasons in prison than two hundred and forty months; just seems shorter. The spring before that, I was the only con that didn’t riot during a blackout. The guards were so pleased by my broken will that they let me have an old-fashioned typewriter, the kind that click-clacks the words onto paper and chimes when you reach the end of the line (except that mine doesn’t chime anymore).

While contemplating a return to slumber, my door shivers and I can hear the buzz and creak of electronics within. The small clock I’d smuggled in points out firmly that it is only seven-thirty in the morning. Breakfast isn’t for another half hour, and yet, my door is grinding open.

“Get up, Mac. You’ve got company.”

Mac, I hate that name with a fervor. The guards and the cons call me by it, because they don’t like my full name, MacAnam Bran O’Ridley. At least I’m not Anam.

The guard steps out of the doorway, after making sure I am properly clothed, to reveal…

A woman.

She’s short, five-foot-two or so, staring up with the intensity of a predator. She takes a moment to scrutinize me, and then gives a nod.

“You’ve been a model prisoner.”

Pause. She checks the clipboard in her diamond-tight grip with her perfectly manicured nails. Second pause, reread the name and continue.

“MacAnam.”

“Mac is fine.”

“Mac it is.”

She seems incensed that I spoke, as though it broke some predetermined script. It takes her a few heartbeats to once more find her composure.

“I’m here representing Mr. Baxtor.”

The bastard weaseled me out of a good amount of money, and the jury found his defense as believable as that hideous toupee he had taken to wearing. I grunt my recognition of the name and cross my arms, going on the defensive.

“He died last month, actually.”

She gives pause, expecting me to dole out some condolences.

I don’t.

“When he died, we found a confession of sorts in his will. A parole board reviewed your case and found you were convicted in error.”

Her words hit me hard, and although I want to speak, my tongue has fainted for me and left me speechless. Instead of saying anything, I blink.

“It turns out,” she speaks now with more confidence, her script having its desired effect, “that Mr. Baxtor was paid a small fortune to throw a few cases. As he wrote, your wife gave him nearly a quarter of a million dollars in cash to get you convicted.”

Delilah. I haven’t thought of her in ages. Not since…

“With that being said, I will let you go.”

She is gone before I can respond, and I am not dreaming.

Freedom.




Wings.

I can feel the wind beneath me again. I can feel the glory of flight. I am bound by no thing; the earth does not hold me, the sky does not devour me. Instead, I tease them both with my dance, bobbing and rising, dropping and twisting.

I don’t know where I am going, yet it is with the utmost urgency that I am drawn. I spread my beak to caw, but I feel the air torn from my breast. I begin to plummet towards the water beneath me.

Out of the corner of my eye I see it; green, rocky, home. It is calling to me, a siren’s song, a lulling, seductive purr of hereditary memory. Yet, before I reach her shores, I am pulled violently into the ocean and jolt awake.



Two months, three days later.

First night in a new place is always scary. I remember my first night in prison… Well, that’s behind me now. Looking around the apartment, I find it hard to remember where anything is. A little loft in San Fran, expensive as hell, but my lawsuit against the firm that wrongfully jailed me is paying for it. I still have a hard time believing it all.



Memory happens in flashes, lightning that crackles and stays. It doesn’t play like a movie. Instead, it all seems to blur together into the overall experience.

Delilah, a nice fitting name for a tempting Italian woman that seemed to gut any of the men she came across. Fiery temper and insatiable in bed, it was a good mix. At the time, I was a general contractor; hellish hours, but it paid well. She was a flight attendant, which meant four days of flight and three days home. It got lonely sometimes, but when she came home, she was a wildcat.

Specifics seem to grow foggy in memory, but the days that matter are crystal clear photographs that don’t fade with age. September... I remember it was September. I was working on a coffee house. Damn it all, if Delilah didn’t call up and ask me to come home early. I couldn’t figure it, but being the good, whipped man I was, I bowed out and went home.

We rented a nice little house in Hercules, a suburb outside of San Francisco. Nice place. Didn’t live up to the name, though. I strolled through the front door, kicked off my boots and wandered into the living room.

First clue your lady is screwing another guy: a shirt you’ve never seen is on the couch.

Second clue: said guy is in shirt, on top of your lady, both of which are locked at the hip.

So, at this point it gets real fuzzy, like sleep deprivation and alcohol poisoning. I remember feeling sick, but it’s more distant, like I’m watching someone else get sick. That’s beside the point; the clearest thing I remember is where my sword was: right above the T.V., across from the couch. I love the Renn Fairs; I went to them all the time. Had my own costume and gear. It was a nice sword, specially made for me, carbon steel blade, double-edged like an old Crusader’s sword. The hilt was longer, though; I’m a big fella with big hands. The pommel was an oval shape, so it didn’t dig into my wrist. Quillions were spring steel and turned up like a smiley face. Unless that sword was plunged into someone’s side, it got real unhappy.

I woke up in the hospital, stinking of whiskey and vomit. Nurse told me I went drinking afterwards, still covered in blood. Folks in the pub called the cops on me, and by the time they got there, I was unconscious in a pool of my own vomit. Guess not all Irish can hold their liquor.



Waking up now, I still figure Delilah will be in the bed next to me, but she’s not; she couldn’t be. Now she’s the one in jail. That pretty little lawyer told me her motive. The bloke that I skewered was well off. He willed her a bunch of cash, and she wouldn’t see a dime of it until she married or killed him. Seeing as she was married already, her options were limited.
Mr. Baxtor was a greedy man; he took half my savings to defend me, and Delilah paid him a hefty chunk of her “willed estate” to throw the case.

“Well, Delilah, look who’s laughing now,” I say.

But the tears I’m shedding are not from laughter.


It’s hard coming out of prison and trying to lead a normal life. Without the bars, without the routine and the guards, it can be kind of scary. At least you know that you’re surrounded by criminals, and who to avoid in prison. On the streets, on a bus, in a market, the criminals blend in seamlessly with their marks. I find myself growing paranoid in crowds. Occasionally, I cast a glance over my shoulder and feel as though I’m being followed.

Weeks pass, and I find I’m still out of a job. Being unemployed means having a lot of spare time. With that time, I focus on what I did in the joint: writing.

Rumi now holds a much larger section of my bookshelf; the Buddhists’ teachings are reclining next to the sensual Persian poet. Buddhism strikes a fancy with me, helps unclutter my mind so I can start remembering who I am. Religion seems kind of pointless to me. How can I know who or what to worship when I’m not even sure who I am?



More time passes; still in the habit of counting seasons, I’m not exactly sure how long, but I do know that spring is coming. Things always seem to happen in spring. I bought a computer and find myself writing more often. Poetry mainly, but occasionally I try my hand at a story. It always comes out badly, though. I can’t seem to make a happy ending. I wonder what that means.


Sleep

Dream…

Not a dream

The Dream

I crack my eyes open, as if I’ve been asleep for days, but my eyes aren’t mine; they are the me that flies, the me that flies home. Again I find my wings lift, and this time I see the continent clearly. The shores are defined by bursts of white water, exploding against the cliff-side. I can smell it: the brine, the ocean, and the land. Land has a smell, too, the earth of it, the stone. Even from this distance I can scent the grass that plays gently in the winds, which lead me home.

This time, I hear a voice; it is a distant, feminine voice that beguiles me, the kind of voice that causes a man to flush with the beauty of it. Were I a man, I would’ve blushed, but I am not. I am a Raven flying home. Where is this home?

That voice answers the question I cannot ask with my hardened beak.

“Eire…”

And I awaken.



I am still here.



The bed is too soft; I’ve begun sleeping on the couch. Assessing my surroundings, I realize it’s midday and I had a job appointment about ten minutes ago. The couch is left vacant as I burst into motion. A shirt comes first, thrown on and buttoned haphazardly, while I brush my teeth and attempt to wrestle the pants onto my legs. I’m out the door before I have my boots on and find myself rushing towards the bus stop.

I catch the BART and continue my preparations there: hair combed with thick fingers and boots laced while fumbling with a tie. None of the commuters seem displaced by my actions; they are wrapped up in their own worlds. An older woman cracks a smile full of holes.

With a nod to the toothless woman, I leap to my feet and slip out the middle of the bus. The boots I wear are my old work boots, shined as best as they can be. The air feels stale. The rhythm of the day seems off. I hear the sounds of the city: the bustle of cars behind me, voices prattling on about whatever voices prattle about. There I stand, in front of the small contractor’s office. I stand there and I realize I don’t want the job. I see the man I talked to inside hurriedly scribbling notes down and looking over floor plans. As I see him, I see what I used to be, I see what I don’t want to become, and I walk away.

At first I move aimlessly, taking a few blocks here and there, before turning and moving in the other direction. Finally, after I tire of my wander, I turn towards my apartment, walking with purpose through the city with other purposeful walkers, all beating the street towards an all encompassing destination. The day drags on, and soon the sun lowers its head into afternoon. The light changes, and still I feel that awkward tension that stands between the city and me. Like a lover who calls out the wrong name in bed, I feel wronged by this place. The more time passes, the more the feeling tinges the back of my mouth.

“Eire! That’s where we should go.” A voice comes from somewhere, a woman’s voice.

Eire... The word infiltrates my mind while I put a few steps between myself and the voice, before I realize the Dream. I turn on a heel and immediately move back to the source. She is a beautiful woman, hair stained an unnatural black, which framed her pale face and brought to life the vivid green of her eye. I find that I am, for a moment, caught off-guard. She stands with another woman, a few decades older than she, who laughs at her enthusiasm.

“Liz, that’s where our family’s from, Ireland.”

Now given a name, Liz wrinkles her freckled nose in distaste. “Mom, it’s Eire. Ireland is the name given to them by the English,” she scoffs. She pushes the door open with a sigh and pulls her mother with her like a reluctant child. I move to the window where Liz had just spoken, and emblazoned against the glass’ sheen I find:


Ireland! Travel to the Emerald Isle!

Enter the Old Lands

Inquire Within for Great Spring Deals!


Curiosity piqued, I raise my hand to open the door, but again feel that twinge of paranoia brush my mind. It isn’t just paranoia, but eyes. I can feel them upon me, watching my slightest move. They could’ve been there the whole time. I unfocus my vision from the poster to watch the reflection of movement in the glass. I fake reading the details of the poster and take in the street behind me. Cars pass; pedestrians walk by. Nothing is stationary, save the parked cars. I take my time in watching each reflection until I see him. Not him, but it, the glitter of binoculars from the passenger side of a brown car. It is a block down, hunting me with a predator’s intensity. Taking a step to the left, I test my hypothesis; the glint shifts with me. Prison makes you take notice of such things. Getting eyed by the burly southerner usually meant going without a shower for a few days, until he found a new Sally to play house with.

I turn from the travel agency and quickly distance myself from the door. I glance back only once, straight into haunting green eyes. For a single moment, our gazes are one, and there is something whispered between us. How I long to go and speak with her, but I know delay could spell trouble, and leave her staring out the window, wondering.

A few blocks pass before the engine cranks on, a sound that would have been lost against the drone of city noise were I not listening for it. I turn and walk a few more blocks out of my way; better to ensure I’m being followed. The sedan slinks around the corner after me like a stray looking for food. Quickly I cut through an alley and move towards my apartment complex. I hope they spotted me, but do not know where I live.

Breaking into a hard run I make my way through the city I have called home most of my life, taking a few of the back-ways one learns as a youth. I move through the last alley, breathing a sigh of relief.

That breath was taken from my lungs as I was jack-knifed into a wall.

The world is black as a raven’s wing.

I am flying again, except I don't have wings this time and I can't see anything. No, I am not flying, I am falling, and I hit the ground hard. Except this isn’t ground; it is metal, and opening my eyes I only see light for a fraction of a second before it is extinguished by a car's trunk closing down on me. I would put money that it is a Brown Sedan.

I hear rustling. There is no music coming from the cabin of the car. I realize the engine isn’t on, and that means I am still close to home. Without taking time to pause, I turn in the trunk and place my hands back against the trunk lid. Curling tight into a ball, I deliver a hard kick to the back seat. The flimsy plastic locks snap, and I spill afternoon light into the trunk. A cacophony of swearing comes from the driver's seat. I spin onto my knees and launch myself forward through the small opening with a hand out.

The crack of a gunshot tears through my ears, and the bullet flies high, piercing the back window. I grab his arm and pull it down between the passenger seat and the driver’s seat. Using his arm as a handhold, I pull the rest of my body through the back seat, and onto a briefcase and some files in the backseat. I grab his head, and wrestle to control his gun arm, thankfully I am stronger than he is, and after a few seconds of struggle I pin him to the seat.

“Who are you?!” I scream in his ear.

“Go to hell!” is his witty reply, and to my chagrin his other hand has an even sharper retort: a knife. It shoots up and digs into my left shoulder. I howl and release his head, but in my pain I twist and break his arm. We both recoil from the sudden bursts of pain when I realize he dropped his gun. I grab the gun from the floorboards while he is contorted in agony over his broken limb.

Lifting the gun, I place the muzzle to the back of the seat about heart and lung level, roaring “Don’t move a muscle or I'll-”

Unfortunately for him, his knife tries to reply before I have a chance to finish. The chirp of the bullet tearing through his chest ends our conversation. He grunts and hits the steering wheel heavily; apparently, the horn is broken because the car is eerily quiet. I sit down, trembling and holding my shoulder as I look at the body in the front seat. It is unreal, two men dead. I am a murderer twice over. I panic, shove the gun in my pocket, and grab everything in the car I could: owner's manual, pack of gum, his knife, his wallet, and place it into the briefcase that had been beneath me in the backseat. I fumble with the door and push out. The alley is quiet, but the first gunshot must’ve alerted someone to trouble. Without thought I run from between the buildings straight into my apartment complex and into my home.


I rushed into the apartment and threw the briefcase onto the kitchen counter. I’d cut myself up pretty good in the past and found that super-glue and a band-aid can put together most any cut. I retrieved those two items from a drawer in the kitchen and got to work. The gash across my left shoulder was messy, but I fixed it up as best I could. The gun was laid upon the kitchen counter beside the briefcase. Shaking violently I went to open the briefcase. The lid flew open and sent a few papers falling from the top and slowly I began to sort through the man's items. His wallet had forty-three dollars in it, two credit cards, a business card from a tattoo shop and a sandwich joints value card. No ID. I swore violently, continuing to go through the case.

Throwing useless papers aside, along with some Mercenary magazine I came to a neatly prepared Manila folder. With slow fingers I opened it and dumped its contents onto my counter.

Staring up at me was my picture, not just one but dozens. Mingled in with these pictures was a bank prepared stack of hundreds. I sorted through the pictures, they were all recent. No notes, nothing. If he was a PI than he wouldn’t have tried to kidnap me and PI’s weren’t allowed to carry guns on the job. I fumed and continued to sort through the items until I came across a napkin with a phone number scrawled across it, a number and a name.


Delilah

630-555-9203


I took a slow breath and rubbed my eyes to stare at it again. A hit man? Could she want me dead? I hadn’t tried to contact her since I got out. I got out. She was going in.

“Damn it...”

I had no other words, leaving the items spread across my counter I grabbed the stack of hundred dollar bills and shoved it in my pocket. Going into the bedroom I stripped down my clothing and threw on some comfortable traveling clothes. I packed a backpack with anything that was dear to me. My Rumi Poetry found its way into my bag as well as a Buddhist book called “Zen Mind, Beginners Mind.” alongside some clothing and an extra pair of running shoes.

It took me little time to undo a lighting fixture in the kitchen and route the wires incorrectly. With a few subtle changes and some chemical’s injected into the light I set the wires a few inches apart and put a folded piece of paper between them. Immediately the paper began to fold as the wires naturally drew themselves together.

I dropped off the footstool and kicked it across the room. Within a few seconds I was out of the apartment and down the stairs. As I turned the corner I could’ve sworn I heard a pop, but the fire wouldn’t spread for a little bit and I knew they could get out in time. It was time to leave, to go home.



“Well Mr. …O’Ridley... We you are making plans very quickly!” The hyper blonde behind the Airport counter yipped at me.

“Yes, I had a death in the family.”

My reply was bland, but she wasn’t listening. She looked up at me and gave me an all-together fake frown, saying something about condolences. Before she gave another vapid smile and said.

“Well, unfortunately all of our flights have been canceled due to a terrorist threat! We can book a flight for next week!”

I stared at her in disbelief and simply nodded.

“Fine. Do it.”

Again she began pecking at the color coded keys and chirped.

“That’ll be One thousand Six hundred, Fifty three dollars and twenty two cents!”

I handed her my bankcard and let her swipe it through, while I rubbed my eyes tiredly.

“Where’s the shuttles to the hotels?”

She was silent as she waited for the card to approve, as the beep of acceptance issued from the tiny black machine she handed my card back and smiled. “Just follow the signs.”

Her finger pointed above my head to a blue sign that herded the traveling sheep to their different locales. I took the ticket from her and nodded, stepping out of line for the next disgruntled person to take my place.

The tile floors clicked beneath my work boots and my feet screamed in pain. Boots were not meant for running in, especially not steel-toed and I was feeling the effects. I followed the markers towards the shuttles and took a bus that smelled of faux pine and sweat to a hotel. The ride was bouncing and the man who drove it tried to chitchat with me. But, when he found I was silent he too became quiet. With a nod I tipped him with a hundred and left towards the welcoming glass doors of the hotel.

Flying…

Real flying, my wings spreading wide beneath my weight and I see forever. Blue and Green are all I see. The green of lush grasses and the blue of sky and ocean still around me. I am the Raven once more and I am almost on my home territory. I am almost home. Again the winds pick up and I feel as though the world has finally aligned. The feeling of being displaced is gone and now all I feel is peace.

But something is wrong, I feel my left wing give under me and I begin to spiral down towards the ocean only a few precious leagues from home. I open my mouth and scream but I feel the air pulled from them and…

Beeping.

I’m awake.

And I’m still here.

The Alarm clock screams at me to wake up. The week is up; I’ve spent it completely in this room. The room is completely untouched, I’ve done nothing but sleep, eat, watch T.V. and read. It was a familiar feeling, as though I was in prison again. Except this Prison had a Television.

I grab my bag and stare outside, it’s still before dawn but the light is just beginning to break the sky apart and the world is gray. That drab grayness that only comes a few moments before the sun breaks free from the shackles of night and the day is born once more. I pick up my passport off the desk that faces the window and stare at it. Not a mark on it, I’ve never been anywhere outside the country. This will be a new start.

I’m off, down the elevator and to the lobby. I pay in cash and I am gone from there without trace, a ghost. The lobby calls a Taxi for me, but I don’t stay inside. I wait outside, in the chill of the morning. The bay is a bit off, but I can still see the fog rolling atop it as caressing fingers. I wait and finally the taxi pulls up. I see a statue of the Buddha on the dashboard of the Taxi and grin slightly. I dropped into the back seat and we are off wordlessly. The driver looks in the rear-view and says.

“You care for any particular music?”

I expected an accent, I don’t know why, probably racist stereotypes. But, he didn’t have one. I shook my head and he dropped in some pleasant flute music. We tore across the streets and he drove with purpose towards the airport. The car’s all flooded together on the expressway and moved as one towards their separate destinations. It was a quiet, wordless drive and finally I was at the terminal. I turned to get out, stopped and pulled what remained of my cash, a few hundred dollars and tossed it in his window.

“Keep the change.”

I disappeared into the terminal before he could count the money and somewhere inside I hoped he didn’t have some crippling addiction I was feeding.

I moved past the baggage check and up the escalator towards the security checkpoint. Pushing into line I stood and slowly moved forward. We were all Pavlov’s Dogs. Each time one of the Counter attendants called “Next” we all lifted our bags, took a feeble few steps forward and set them down. Through the line this went, a dozen or more times before I stood at the head and stared expectantly at the employee’s that were doing the security searches. Walking forward, I dropped my bag onto the x-ray machine and waited for the blandly dressed woman to call me through the metal detector. As she guided me forward, I quickly took my watch off and threw it in a basket with an apologetic smile.

I walked through the machine and miraculously didn’t get the loud beep that everyone before had. She nodded me past and I followed the length of the conveyor belt to the end where it was spewing forth random carry on luggage. I waited beside a tall man who had an air of importance about him. He looked at me with a courteous smile before he lifted his black laptop case and disappeared towards the gates. As he left I saw my bag come forth and happily lifted it to my shoulder. A good omen, I wasn’t running late.

In my running shoes, I do just that. Run, up the length of the food-court, past the stores pushing books and travel items and towards my destination. Over the loud speaker I hear a crackling woman’s voice rattling off destinations and gates. I expect men to burst out of any corner, every nook and cranny could hold death for me. I try not to think about what had happened, the man I had killed and the apartment building I burned down. But, we all have our crosses to bear, right?

I find my gate and slouch into one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs. I’m the only one there and for once I feel a kind of reassurance. It’s all behind me, and finally I get to go to Ireland… No Eire, just like Liz said. Digging through my bag I pull out the Zen book and begin to lose myself into Shunryu Suzuki’s talks.


A few hours pass, I got really good at passing time in prison and find little waits like this one to be nothing of inconvenience. Others have piled in and a few self-important individuals stand in line already. I stand now and slip the book back into the recesses of my bag and pull out my passport. Again I open it and stare at the picture of me who stares back. I shiver and try to discard the feeling of discomfort that has returned once more.

“I’ll be glad to get out of here.” I mutter to myself, a few people around me look up but say nothing.

Finally the voice cracks over the inter-com and I see the mouth speaking it is behind my Gate Counter. It tells me to get ready and begins calling seat rows. I move up towards the counter and show my ticket. The woman smiles vacantly and says.

“For only a hundred more dollars you can upgrade to first class! We had some cancellations and are offering a special deal!”

Shrugging I pull out my bankcard again and hand it over. Why the hell not, I might as well get a good seat for this grudgingly long flight.

“Sure…”

“Alright Mr. … O’Riddle-ee” She butchers my name. “Please move towards the gate entrance and enjoy your flight!”

I move towards the gate intending to do just that, when I hear the man taking tickets saying.

“Please take your seats on the plane, unfortunately there’s been a mechanical error found so we’re going to have to be fixing that. The plane will be delayed…”

Great. The guy must’ve had an addiction, because that money didn’t buy an ounce of Karma.


I am flying, except this time I can’t feel the wind tearing across my wings. I can’t see the ocean beneath or the sky above. Instead I see an awful colored carpet and a group of three buttons with a little radial light that glares down at me.

The pilot has told me we’ve been over the ocean for the past 7 hours and soon we’ll be able to see Ireland. Luckily dawn just came about half an hour ago, we were waylaid at the terminal with some sort of engine problem for three and a half hours. I feel my stomach growl with hunger and my body scream in protest at remaining seated for so long. I stare out the window and can see the hint of that blue which my dreams had held and although I am so close to home, I still feel the sickly unease disturbing my stomach.

I’ve never been in first class, I’ve never really flown either so this is a treat. Wide seats, lots of legroom but still my body was never meant to be still for so long. Though I had a heavy-set man who liked to talk beside me, the flight hadn‘t been half bad. The flight attendants voice echoes from behind me in the economy cabin where I was supposed to sit.

“O’Ridley? Mr. O’Ridley?”

I turn in curiosity and call back, pushing the curtain aside. “Yes?”

She’s a waif, all blonde hair and tanning salon skin. She gives a painfully forced smile and hands me a folded piece of paper.

“A friend of mine wanted me to give you this, we used to fly together.”

She said as she sauntered back towards the front of the plane. I was perplexed and with a light flick of my wrist I pulled open the note with a raised brow. The man beside e wasn’t disturbed by the stewardesses voice didn’t disturb him, I was thankful.

The note unfolded and I recognized the handwriting.


“Mac


You’ve always been such a pain in the ass Mac, I loved that survivor nature in you. It’s why I knew you could survive in prison. Who would’ve guessed old Baxtor would have had such a conscience on him? Not me, that’s for sure.

You’d be amazed what a few grand can buy from a cop.

You’d be even more amazed at what ten grand can get an Airline Mechanic can do.

Ten grand and a few nights of sex.

I love you Mac, you’ve always been good to me. So do me a favor?

Please don’t find a way out of this one. Remember, you did Will me all your assets, I bet you haven’t even gotten a divorce yet have you Mac?


Your lover,
Delly”



I paused and looked around the plane, she wouldn’t be stupid enough to have someone shoot me on a plane. I knew her better than that, that’s when I heard the explosion. The roar of the wind and screaming metal tore at my eardrums. I turned to see the left wing had erupted into flames and torn a sizeable whole in the hull, which was growing exponentially.

The G-force ripped me from my seat and threw me backwards towards the gaping hole, most of the passengers in economy were either dead or being sucked out as well as first classers.

Decompression and the ensuing free fall tore me from my seat, belt and all. Crashing into the ceiling I joined the mass of debris and people in being ejected from the remains of the plane.

This is a nightmare, it couldn’t be real, I couldn’t be living this…



I am flying.

Beneath me is the blue of the ocean and above me the endless stretch of sky. I feel the wind rush through my hair, across my fingertips. I have no wings, nor feathers. I open my eyes against the sting of the wind and stare forward. The plane is on fire and I am falling from heaven. Yet I do not fear, I don’t feel anything but the wind and the sun touching upon my face. I can smell the sea and see her, she’s right there in front of me.


Eire…


And I don’t wake up.

And I am free.

Quick notes regarding formatting & cross-publishing:

The Cauldron forums, while awfully nifty, do not do the best job of formatting - there's no ability to automatically indent or to align text.

If you need advanced formating, I'd suggest writing the work in a Journal by going to Create -> Write in Journal, where you have a full WYSIWYG editor available to you - works very close to how Word or Open Office does. Journals can still be commented on in the forums. In fact, if you want to have this thread linked to a future Journal entry with the story above, once you create the Journal, just let me know.

That being said, Journals are considered "Published" work. Regarding how this story will work with your publishers, you should see what types of rights they ask for, if they're exclusive, and if it includes electronic / web publication. If they're non-exclusive, then we can both publish without worry of getting you in legal trouble. If they're particularly strict, even having this work in a public forum can prove problematic (which is one reason that we have the Private Critique forums available).

Note that by putting this on Wild Poets, you've given us the non-exclusive right for web publication. That being said, unless the WP staff has invested a great deal of time into developing and/or publishing a work, we'll generally honor takedown requests.

If you have any questions or need any help, feel free to drop me a line.

Great contributions, btw - keep 'em coming!

~The Pub