I find myself fly
ing without the aid of wings or jetpack
. I am on a cell phone
. I am talking to a girl I knew in seventh grade
. We are not really friend
s. She is asking if I know about David S., another name that has a vague ring of “oh yeah” to it. I say no, I need updates, but she will not say. “It is far too depressing
to go into right now.”
I ask her if she has any video of me from my childhood. She tells me she does.
As I am flying I see a group of burned out houses in the distance. I set off to explore, dropping the cell phone.
I fly into a dark and dreary warehouse. My flying power wanes and I find that I can not stay airborne. I am stalling, touching the floor to push myself back into the air, suddenly top heavy. The floor is coated with grimy grease; I scrap particles of plastic and metal from the floor, disgusted and afraid that I will never get back into the light.
I know I need the light to fly, I am solar powered. I fly through seven rooms. On the last I am barley clearing the floor. My knees are scraped and bleeding, my palms are black and stuck with pointy bits of metal. I see what I think is blue sky and I manage to fly up to it, but it is only a picture.
I throw open the door and burst out into the night air.
It is very dark.
My flying powers are gone.
I land in a pile of weeds
and rusty broken things.