& Away

This image belongs to Edem Tours

The awakening at dawn
the unfurling in morning’s chill
the hushing rustle of grasses
and the braying of zebras
the creak of the basket
the fiery exhale
the lurch
the lift
the rise
the lofty climb
to this
to this
oh finally
at last
at last
at last
I waited so long for this.

the soaring glide over African plains
the herds of wildebeest
and running antelope
the regal grace of giraffes
the majesty of elephants

my crayon scribbles
hung on the cabinets at home
did not know
could never have known
the rapid whirr of my heart
the wide elation of my eyes
the grip of my hand on my own hair
and the hitching intake of my breath

a ribbon of water below spreads to a delta
and into a muddy lake
I had no idea that’s where that goes.
hippos bump and laze
startled cranes move aside
making room
I cannot ask for what, we soar away
up
up

& away

my naked feet on the basket’s edge
my arms spread wide
I smell the savanna
And the acrid heat rising now
I lean
I tilt
I fall
Heated air grabs me beneath my arms turned wings
I am lifted
And I fly
At last
At last
I waited so long

so long

so long

so long

so long

to fly.

The assignment in this Flash Fiction Friday was to incorporate a balloon, a crayon, and the words "I had no idea that's where that goes!" into a story.

Unveiling

It is just a bad feeling that makes me look back. A warning in the back of my brain; like a voice, like a buzzing, a wasp, a bee, a shout, a whisper. I stop walking and look at my reflection in a shop window, pretending to check my hair but really peering past my shoulder.

He is there. Walking slowly, purposefully towards me, and tap-tap-tapping with his cane. The taps echo like drumbeats in my ribcage, like the strokes of a giant clock that booms out the final hours of the souls on the Last Mile. I know that I cannot hide much longer, that my time of indecision is coming to an end.

Then he is gone; I catch the smallest movement of a slim shape that fades into shadow as I watch it in the glass. A barely-there darkness, a gathering of grays, lurks behind the plantings of the next shop. He has paused, perhaps to listen for my breathing, perhaps to catch my perfume on the wind. I pick up my pace and flit from storefront to storefront, knowing I can’t evade my promise for long. I slip into a boutique and loiter a while, fingering faux fur and rhinestone, counting minutes. When I come out, I find a sheet of music paper taped to the door with one word scrawled in pencil: Please.

A panicked bird flutters up from my heart into my throat and lingers there as I hurry out of the shop and flee past the last few shops to the post office that marks the end of Main Street. I hear his footfalls behind me; I freeze my every muscle in the hopes that he won’t know I am here. He is so close that I can hear his inhale and then, in a quiet voice, he says my name.

No, I can’t! I can’t! This isn’t what I wanted, my mind screams as I seek escape. I can go no further; the safe little street ends here, merges and expands into a four-lane road littered with strip malls. It cannot be crossed. Maybe by me, but certainly not by him. Reluctantly, I turn around and face his percussive approach.

He must sense that I am near, for he pauses in step and reaches a hand towards me. The cane hovers just above the sidewalk, its red tip ready to warn his fingers of the slightest imperfection in the sidewalk. The hand hangs in the air between us; I look at it as if it were a thing new to me and not a hand I’ve memorized over the last year. Every Thursday, I have sat beside him on the piano bench to watch these hands study a new piece. First the left hand plays as the right hand reads the music; then they exchange places. Finally, both hands reunite on the keyboard to hammer out their individual songs in harmony. His face, serene and still, belies the rapture that must rise in his heart at such a beautiful pairing.

He cannot see the delight in my own face; the way my teeth bite my lip as I watch the fine bones of his hands moving under the muscles. Does he see the elated tears that spring to my eyes as those strong fingers coax newborn notes from the ivory? No, he does not see, and he does not understand the suddenness of my decision when I decide to end the lessons. A week has passed, and our conversations since then have led to this inevitable moment.

The hand still hangs in the air; it asks a silent question. Sighing, I lightly touch his sleeve and say, All right.

A smile plays with the edges of his mouth as he steps closer and holds out the cane. I take it from him and stand still. His hands come up and hover near my shoulders, my neck; they hesitate, as if they know that this moment marks an end of things as they were. It is the end of anonymity; the end of the teacher and pupil.

His places his hands on my shoulders and moves them slowly upwards. His fingers reach my neck and slide upwards to ponder the curve of my jawline; one thumb on each hand traces the edge where jawbone meets softer flesh beneath it; the hollow that forms there. His fingers spread to two V-shapes that search the upper curve of my jaw, cheekbone, and ear. I close my eyes and just let it happen, this slow unearthing, this surrender of my veil. Inching across my cheeks and the bridge of my nose, his fingers discover the shapes of my face. Gently, they touch like the lightest breath upon my eyelids, my eyelashes, and then my temples, learning them. A firmer touch carries him up over my forehead and then onto my hair, a tress of which he caresses between two fingers and then slides through the fork of the entire hand.

Thank you, he whispers, and returns his hands to my shoulders. I surrender into his embrace and rest my head on his shoulder, and in that moment I decide.

The assignment in this Flash Fiction Friday was to begin a story with "It was just a bad feeling ..." I changed verb tense, and ran with it.