Welcome to my new WordPress blog. I’m not going to bore you with the obligatory introduction post, so I’ll get right to it. The Girl Who Could Fly is a very brief story I wrote recently, which debuted on my friend Kelcie’s blog, On the Fringes. So, dear readers, I trot out this spent gem for you as my inaugural post. I hope you enjoy it.
The Girl Who Could Fly
It happened for the first time one cool night in November. Katie stepped off her back porch and floated down to the ground, light as a feather. Startled, and having no idea what she had done, she raced back up the steps and did it again. She drifted downward and when her feet touched the ground, she kicked off softly. This time she drifted upward. She went further and further from the earth and soon she was higher than the tallest treetop in her backyard with a thrilling and terrifying feeling of vertigo in her gut.
That night she flew.
And she didn’t stop flying. She flew whenever she got the chance, taking pains to not be discovered lest she wake from her dream and bring the world’s eye upon her. Her favorite time to fly was just before dawn, when most people were still asleep and there was just enough twilight to see the world waking up.
She would hurtle toward the sky and feel the crisp air claw at her cheeks, turning them rosy red. Once she ascended high enough to look over the whole neighborhood, she would stop and hover there, staring out at the landscape spread before her; a mix of nostalgia and giddiness nearly overwhelmed her every time. Then she was off, ears filled with whirring air, eyes watering. She would zoom through the busiest metropolises, sometimes diving down toward the streets then swooping up at the last moment to soar above the skyscrapers. She would cruise above the clouds and catch glimpses of the still-dark, patchwork land below and marvel at how big it all was. She would peruse the remotest places of the world: mountain ranges, valleys, deserts, glacial fields. She once watched the sunrise as she zigged and zagged through the Grand Canyon. She’d gazed at the Northern Lights from a pillow of clouds. Occasionally she flew so high that she had trouble drawing breath and had to dive down to where the atmosphere was thicker.
After each of these adventures, she would fly back home and tuck herself into bed before anyone else in the house woke up. Those early morning flights always left a twinkle in her eye that would stay there for the rest of the day. Maybe that was why she was so well liked, her laugh so infectious. Katie’s gift of flight defined her, it was her joy. And yet she kept it secret always.
* * *
One morning, before the sun was up, a boy caught a glimpse of Katie levitating in her backyard. She fell out of the air and broke her arm.
* * *
The twinkle went out of Katie’s eyes that day. She didn’t feel giddy anymore after she lost flight; the only nostalgia she felt was a baleful memory of soaring, which always turned into painful longing. She muddled along as the years rolled by, consumed by her loss. Those who were close to her could not reckon what horrible turn had come over her; one day their Katie was bright and bubbly, the next she was cold and detached. Many assumed some kind of depression had come over her when she broke her arm, but none knew the true reason.
One day, as Katie sat sketching in a small café, a young gentleman approached her and asked what she was drawing. She had taken to drawing and painting—mostly birds and other winged creatures—to help cope with the weight of her depression. She looked at the man tiredly and showed him the half-finished sketch of a finch in mid-flight. The man examined the drawing for some time then told her how much he admired her technique. He went on to say how much he admired her looks and wondered if she would like to go to dinner.
She said yes. And much to her surprise she liked the man. They saw a lot of each other over the next couple months, and for the first time in years Katie’s thoughts were filled with more than flight. They went on dates to museums and cinemas and discussed how pretentious modern art was. He cooked meals for her while they laughed at reruns of crummy sitcoms. She met his parents and charmed them with a bit of her old charisma. Eventually, he got down on one knee and proposed to her in front of a babbling fountain on a crisp winter night. She accepted with delight. But as much as she loved him, and she did love him, she knew the secret she bore would come between them if she didn’t tell him.
So one night, several days before their wedding, she took his hand in hers and told him of a time when she had been able to fly. She started to cry as she recounted her experiences and became nearly incoherent when she described how the gift inexplicably left her. As she told this long kept secret, the man grew paler and paler and said very little. When she finished, he stood and ran a hand through his hair. He looked at her with a mix of shock and pity. Katie thought the man was going to denounce her as insane and call the wedding off. Instead, he told her in a shaky voice that years ago he had seen a girl floating in the air. He thought he had imagined it, but that night, he found that he too could fly. And he had been going on night flights of his own ever since.
Katie stared straight ahead, her tear-streaked face white, all light gone out in her eyes.
* * *
Far away, a young girl was racing down a snow-covered hill on a sled. At the bottom of the hill, she rocketed off an improvised ramp of packed snow and ice. The sled fell to the unmarked snow beyond the ramp, leaving a light track as it skidded forward. The girl continued soaring, rushing toward the snow-leaden clouds above.
