FLIGHT

Chapter One

I had always been fascinated by the runners who tended to cross the blue gap in the sky above me whenever I looked up from the alleyways. They seemed so graceful to me, practicing their art subtly, never asking for the attention anyone and everyone gave them. I wanted to be one of them. When I was sixteen years old it began; I was walking home from the grocery store with a brown bag in either hand. I crossed the broken street and crippled sidewalk and entered the battered-down apartment building of red brick. Everything was as it should have been at home, for it was quiet and not a soul stirred. I debated calling out to my mother, but she was probably sleeping between shifts at her job. We both had jobs, I worked after school on Tuesdays through Fridays and on Saturdays at a butcher’s shop, cleaning the messy floors. My mother, Wendy, worked at a factory, making things. The factory was leased to different companies at different times, so she had learned the secrets about making numerous items like bowling balls, drills, shoelaces, and even waistbands for underwear. I always enjoyed her stories that she told, but it’d been awhile since she had a chance because she’s been working two shifts each day, with 2 hours between them. That gave her an hour and a half to nap between them, which she used every day without fail. I got home, and put the groceries in our refrigerator in our small apartment with two bedrooms. The paint on the walls was chipping, but we didn’t care, just like we didn’t care to clean up our clutter, or maybe we just didn’t have time. Everything was put away and I hadn’t talked to her all day so I knocked on my mother’s door, making sure it was okay to enter before I did. I opened the door slowly and said cheerily:

“Hey mom! How was work? You sleeping?” But there was no reply from her, for she sat in her bed with her head between her knees, holding a piece of yellowed paper and sobbing quietly. She didn’t even notice me coming in so I immediately ran to her, tripping over her dirty factory uniform lying crumpled on the floor. I sat down on the bed next to her and held her around her shoulders, trying to pull her head out from where she had hidden her tears so she could cry on me. Eventually my mother gave in and let me hold her as she let out all the tears she could manage before sniffling quite a lot. I sat with her for what seemed like an hour before actually asking what was wrong: I had to make sure she was okay to talk. My mother was delicate and I always did what I could to take care of her, and us.
Before I even asked, she handed me the tear-stained, yellow piece of paper, which was textured like an old piece of parchment. I unraveled and looked at it without reading it, and I think she noticed that.
“You don’t have to read it, I’ll tell you everything in a minute as long as you promise not to be upset at me.”
I shot my mother a worried look and she pulled out of my grip, holding her knees and faking a smile in an effort to make me smile. I looked around the room then, trying to be strong for whatever scary news there was in store. Last time, it was that my mother’s wages had been cut and she had to work two shifts to make the same amount of money. Before that, it was that we were being evicted from our semi-nice apartment and had to move out here. That news ruined everything, forcing me to change schools and her to find a new job.
“Well...” she said, trying to think of the words that would be easy for me to hear.
“Just tell me, mom. I’m a big boy, remember? I can handle it.” I laughed. I often find that when a situation is bad, or potentially bad, your best bet is to laugh at it. I don’t know why, but it helps.
“Okay then, if you say so.” she said, and then immediately after; “It’s about your father.”
My jaw dropped, I was astonished. Now? After all these years had he finally tried to contact us? or me? Did he finally care about us and decided to save us from what he left us in? I had never met the man, but my imagination had turned him into a terrible demon who went to clubs and got women pregnant, leaving them just like he had my mother and I. I imagined that I had probably fifty brothers or sisters that my deadbeat father had left alone in this world.
Anger started to brew, thinking of these things; “Does the a*****e wanna drop by? Maybe say ‘Hello’ to his wonderful son and loving wife? Perhaps he’ll even cook us dinner and take us out to the movies? Oh, I’d love that,” said I with a sarcastic, stinging tone. My intentions in that moment were to offend him, even if he wasn’t there. I wanted him to hurt as we did, for I blamed him for it. I didn’t blame him for everything, but I certainly think it’d be easier if we hadn’t been left like this.
“Noah. Noah, calm down,” said my mother with a crooked frown. I stood up and clenched my fists, walking to the doorway. My thoughts and actions were racing, working together to create another outburst of words, but instead I threw my fist as hard as I could at the door frame. I caught the metal piece in the middle of the door and it drew blood, but there was a definite dent there and that was soothing. So was the blood, but after a minute I felt the pain from it.
I turned back to my mother, a bit calmer and asked sullenly:
“So what does he want?”
My mother’s face moved in a way that told me something was the matter, but she didn’t speak immediately. Instead, she looked at her bedsheets which contained red flowers and picked at one of them, her finger moving in figure eights around it.
“Well, Noah... Your father is dead” said she and tears began to form in her eyes. I could hear them in her voice, which broke off as the hot salty things began running down her cheeks.

Where I live they say that crying keeps wrinkles away, I guess because they are some kind of moisturizer for your skin, but that never made sense to me. My mother was a perfect example of this though, for she never cried. I had seen her cry maybe twice in my lifetime before that day, which proved the saying because she was only 34 years old and had wrinkles ten years beyond what she should have. It made me sad, that she looked so sad, yet she couldn’t cry. I suppose it was in her psychology not to cry, because she never wanted to appear weak. She couldn’t afford to. The only person she had to protect her was me, and I don’t think I’ve ever been intimidating.

“Dead?” I said, confused as all hell. How could we know? Who did he tell about us? I let the questions go from my mind and went back to my mother on the bed and let her cry on my shoulder, soaking my torn black shirt. This time, there was less visible affection, but my thoughts were a storm and I stared at the closet beside her bed, with a broken mirror (the only one we had) and chipped white paint. Clothes were coming out from under it as if they wanted to escape. My thoughts went from my father to how I should help clean her room, and then back to my father, where they stayed for a while as my mother composed herself.

She sat back against the wall and stared at me as if she could read my thoughts, scouring my mind’s recesses for things I had long ago locked away. I gave up wondering about him when I was younger than six; there were always more important things to worry about, including food. In the end, I knew it was inevitable that I would have to hear about him, so I turned to my mother and asked:

“So tell me about him. And about how he died.”

My mother sighed deeply, collecting her thoughts and wiping her eyes clean. Her cheeks were rubbed raw from so many tears, but I could have sworn she had fewer wrinkles than before. My mother’s demeanor changed from one of sadness to something a little bit closer to happiness, and we grinned at each other as she began telling the tale.
“You know about the government?”
I nodded. Of course I did, I was sixteen now.
“And Dante?”
I nodded again.
“Do you know who Ethereals are?” she asked me, raising an eyebrow.
I began to nod but stopped halfway, “I’ve heard of them. Maybe. Who are they?”
My mother chuckled and cleared her throat, “Ethereals are nobles. Much different than you and me. Barely even human. Well, they’d call themselves more than human. They are immortal. They’ve lived for thousands of years, most of them. They live far above the tallest buildings, in the clouds. They are, despite what they sound like, not arrogant. Most of them aren’t anyways. They oppose Dante’s regime, though. They despise it. Most of them, anyways.”
I nodded silently once more, still listening.
“For the longest time, they waited out Dante, expecting someone else to rise up and take him down, but after 200 years no one did and they became frustrated. Like I said, they live forever, so a lifetime for us is nothing to them. They were used to dictators seizing power, but not for that long. Dante had something about him that let him live longer, for who knows how long. Perhaps he is immortal like them.”
All of this was new to me, at least the part about ethereals. I had always thought they were just aliens who thought themselves above us, but the fact that they hated Dante put them in a new light. Dante was an evil dictator who lived far above the surface in a palace built on slave labor. He hated the working class and the poor, even though he was a criminal and a slumdog himself. Or so the stories go, that he grew up with nothing and worked his way up through gangs and criminal organizations until finally he seized control of Taedium, the planet we live on. Dante had basically sectioned us off from the rest of the galaxy, using us for his own profit. That’s where all the bowling balls, drills, shoelaces and underwear waistbands my mother made went to. Well, 80 percent of them anyways.
“The ethereals came together in a council as they often did and each offered solutions to this ‘Dante’ problem. This was maybe fifty years ago. Someone at the council proposed an unofficial taskforce to dismantle Dante’s organization. The idea was tossed around for a while and different things were added to it and taken away, but eventually they had outlined a group which they would call the Auctores, or ‘instigators’. There were many problems with this, because they needed volunteers, or else they would be just as bad as Dante himself. It was then decided that no one would volunteer for a private army against the government, so the ethereals made the Auctores a courier group, hiring people from down here to deliver messages for them.” My mother took a breath of air and asked me to fetch her a glass of water because her throat was beginning to feel sore. I went to the kitchen and washed out a dirty glass thoroughly, then filled it with fresh water and brought it back to her.

“Thank you,” she said, smiling at me graciously. “People eventually began to join and be trained by the ethereals to run and jump like masters, crossing the rooftops with ease. This was important because the only way to the ethereal’s manors were aircraft which had to land on rooftops. Soon enough, the government became frustrated with this elite group of us and started arresting those couriers who got caught. This was the beginning of what the ethereals wanted to happen.”

“They wanted them to fight...” I said, understanding.

My mother nodded at me, gulping down more water and swallowing. She crossed her legs and rocked herself back and forth, clearly feeling a bit cheerier than earlier. Perhaps this retelling of history had made her feel better.
“So the Auctores became known as ‘Runners’ to us, and in time became the unofficial thieves and assassins of the ethereals, as they were their official couriers.” she seemed to finish her story and for a moment I was satisfied. I had gotten so used to not thinking about it that I had forgotten to ask:
“And what about my father? Where does he tie in?”
My mother’s smile disappeared, the crooked frown showing in her face again. She answered without crying:

“He was a runner. He had to leave when you were born. It wasn’t his choice and he wouldn’t have if he didn’t have to. Two weeks after you were born, something had called for him. He felt it and so did I. He needed to go back to his Master. The ethereal who employed him. I don’t know what happened from there. I got this letter, and it said he was killed in the middle of a mission, and that they were extremely sorry and that it was ‘regrettable to their cause’ and that sort of thing, y’know?” she sighed and looked down at her sheets with the roses. “He wasn’t a bad person, Noah. He was a wonderful man and I loved him. I still do. You’re so much like him, I know you feel called to be a runner too. I can see it in your eyes.”

I was confused, conflicted. I was sad and angry all at the same time. I was sad that I had not known him, angry that he had left, and angry at myself for being so cruel, if what my mother said was true. She had always defended him when I got angry because of it, and now I knew why. He was a “wonderful man”, but I never knew him. And she was right, I did feel called to be a runner, but what does that mean? Should I just go jump off a building? I knew nothing at the time, and knew not if anything would be made clear. I sat on the bed, focusing all of my energy on the shattered mirror, staring at myself. I tried to imagine myself older, to see what my father might look like. I had never done this before, but my mother had said I was just like him.

I stood up to leave, and my mother asked me where I was going with a worried look in her eye.

“I love you, mom. I love you so much. Be safe at work tonight, I’m just gonna go for a walk. I’ll be back, I promise.” I left the room, softly shutting the door behind me and passing through the kitchen, past my bedroom and the bathroom and out the door of our second-floor apartment. I wished I had given my mom a hug and a kiss on the cheek, but I was already out here and my mind was all over the place. I headed towards the stairs to go outside and walk to a park which I frequented when needing a place to think. Upon setting one foot on the metal staircase, something caught my eye. It was a flash of some shadow, disappearing up the stairs. I stared for a few seconds, then looked down the stairs and back up them. My curiosity got the best of me and I followed what I had thought I’d seen.

There were few other residents here and they were all either asleep or at work at this time, so seeing something like this was odd to me. I was up one flight of stairs when I saw the corner of the shadow turning and going up the next flight. I moved faster, hoping to get another glimpse, and I did. This cycle repeated itself until I realized I was on the sixth floor, so I sped up again, seeing more of the figure after every flight. At the top of the stairs I saw the entire figure. It was a runner, wearing grey pants and a grey hoodie. I sped towards him, barreling through the door to the roof only seconds after he did.

Now we were both on the roof and he stood facing me, leaving a gap of about fifteen feet between us. I stood motionless, not knowing what to say to him. He cocked his head to the side, giving me a better view of what appeared to be a black bandana with white skulls painted on it. Upon closer examination I realized that his pants were ripped and torn, his hoodie had various symbols and words painted on it with black spray-paint, and his shoes were barely held together. His entire outfit was black or grey, and he seemed much more human when at eye level. His exposed hands had cuts and scars covering them, and on his left hand was a tattoo of - before I could tell what it was, he caught me looking and pivoted on his heel, sprinting to the ledge of the building and leaping without hesitation.

“No! Wait!” I screamed, shocked at the skill with which he rolled out of his landing on a building below this one. He stood up and looked back, removing his hood and bandana and squinting at me. I could not make out any features except for his bald head, shining in the light of the setting sun. Again, he turned and ran, crossing that building and onto the next, and the next after that. Soon he was out of sight and I trudged from the rooftop back home. Before going to collapse on my bed, I checked my mother’s room. Her factory uniform was no longer on the floor; she had already left for work.

I went to my bedroom, which was rather dull, consisting of an old desk and a bed which sagged in the middle from overuse. I slept often, when I wasn’t working or at school. Few and far between were the chances to spend my free time doing things I actually enjoyed. My free time was so limited that I barely even knew what I liked to do. Mostly, I day-dreamed. During school and sweeping at the butcher’s shop, I dreamt of flying across the sky as a bird, with no chains, no restrictions, and complete freedom. I collapsed onto the bed, my face buried in the pillow and I slept, without even thinking about it.

I dreamt of the runner I had followed to the rooftops, being beside him and matching his skills with my own. My mother was right, it was what I felt called to do, to fly like that. We were on top of a very tall building, so high up that I couldn’t see the ground. It didn’t bother me or scare me, because I had been here before, I had done this for years. He jumped from the ledge and propelled some kind of projectile hook-rope forward and it gripped onto another building. He swung on the rope as if it was a vine and the buildings were large, steel trees with windows instead of leaves. He caught a ledge and pulled himself up onto it, walking around the corner of the building with his chest pressed close to the thick glass windows. I stood at the ledge, bracing myself to jump and clear the expanse between me and the other skyscraper. Something told me to look into the sky, so I did. Ahead of me was a large vessel, a star-cruiser. A ship like that wouldn’t be this low in the city, I thought to myself. I scoured at it for a second, it’s massive figure casting a shadow on me, swallowing me up and scaring me. A loud voice came from somewhere on it, but I couldn’t understand the words. They were repeated over and over, more inaudible each time. Finally I gave up and jumped from the roof, preparing to cast my rope at the far side, but something was wrong and I fell.

The fall woke me up and I jumped straight out of bed and into my clothes. I don’t remember changing into my night clothes, but I let the thought pass me by as I put on a pair of dark jeans and a white shirt. Next I grab my metal chain which I wear around my neck and look at it for a second before putting it on. I slip on my torn, ripped, busted, destroyed black shoes and tie them tightly so I don’t trip. Finally, I slide into a grey hoodie of mine to try and beat out the cold weather that we so often deal with.

In the lowest part of the city: the surface, it is always cold. No one knows why, since the factories and buildings generate so much heat, but it has something to do with our atmosphere and global climate. All the heat goes up to the upper-class skyscrapers, the ethereals and at the very top: Dante’s Palace. It must be paradise there, not having to wear layers every single day, not struggling against nature. The entire planet of Taedium is a gigantic city, with certain hemispheres dedicated to certain industries, but mostly it was factories and dilapidated apartment buildings down here.

I had made a decision that day, I was going to train myself in their ways, to find them and become one of them. I wanted to know about my father, that’s how it began anyways. I was walking somewhere, although I didn’t know where, but I needed rooftops to begin training on. Something small, mediocre, but not too easy. I hated too easy. On my search I saw people from school and an old man who frequently came into the butcher’s shop requesting choice cuts of meat. He smiled at me and I returned it while he worked in his garden. It wasn’t until several minutes later when I realized how odd it was to have a garden in weather this cold, in a city like this. The immense buildings surrounding me on all sides always made me feel like I was in a giant box, and someone was watching me constantly, surveying my every move. That kind of thing makes you feel weak, that’s probably part of why I want to fly away.

At last I found a perfect place: two abandoned warehouse buildings, with many ledges and footholds, that weren’t too far apart from each other, that I would train on. I ran behind the building and out of sight, or what I hoped was out of sight, for I still felt as if I was being watched from above as always. It took some effort, but eventually I was able to reach the roof. I was clearly not an expert at this stage. I sat down on the roof of the warehouse and thought deeply, letting my mind run on autopilot for a while.

It was around lunchtime and my stomach began to growl, so I decided to do a little bit of running, jumping, and climbing. The warehouses were mere feet from each other, so that jump was easy enough. I ran back and forth for a while and then climbed down carefully. I told myself I would do this for a while, and then find a more difficult area to train at. For weeks and weeks I prepared myself, for something, maybe nothing. It felt right, though, it gave me some kind of purpose.

I was on top of the apartment building where I lived, where I had stood with the runner six weeks previously. I was preparing myself for my first “flight” as I called it. It wasn’t anything special to someone who is experienced at it, but to me it was everything. If I could make the jump, I would be just a little bit closer to being “real”. That’s how it felt anyways. I got a good head start, probably twenty feet to run at the ledge. I inhaled and exhaled deeply, my heart raced and I smiled excitedly. I took off. I sprinted directly at the ledge and as I reached it, pushed off as hard as I possibly could and soared through the air towards the lower building. The jump felt longer than it looked, but didn’t last nearly long enough. I would have given anything to be in the air forever. I landed with a crash, instead of the graceful roll I had been practicing. I groaned and got up slowly, brushing dirt off of my pants and hoodie and shaking out my hair. My ankle seized up in pain as I put weight on it. From somewhere I heard a chuckle, the amused giggle of a girl. I was humiliated, but confused. Whose laugh was this? I looked around me frantically, seeing no one. Then, out of the corner of my eye I caught a shadow. I ran towards it, but it kept disappearing. Every few seconds I would see it again on a wall of a building across the alleys. For some reason, instinct kicked in over intelligence and I went after the shadow. Without thinking, my legs carried me across the buildings and alleyways, through the air, climbing, jumping, rolling, and moving with the best agility I had ever possessed. I was shocked at how well I did at this, until I found myself falling halfway between an apartment complex and another brick building.

“Fuuuuuuuuck!” I screamed, flailing my arms and legs about. The blue sky suddenly disappeared as I hit the ground. It seemed so much closer than I would have imagined. Now only voices surrounded me. I didn’t know whether it was a dream or not. I groaned in agony and tried to sit up, my eyes still closed.

“Shh. Shh. Lay down,” came the soft whisper of a woman to my right. I complied, not wanting to stress my probably broken bones even more. I did manage to open my eyes once, seeing a pink sky and in front of it a beautiful girl, my age, looking at my leg. She had hair as dark as any night I had ever seen and her face soft-looking and tangible. I even tried to reach out to her, but my arm fell back down painfully and I blacked out again.

Reviews

[Veronica Nicole]

I finally got around to reading this. I love it, Mase. It's very interesting and I cannot wait to see where it goes. :)

[Coyote Poetry]

A very interesting story. I will come back later and read again. I'm on a terrible work schedule.I like this story. Good storyline and characters. I will be back in two day and read your stories. Good to meet you.
Coyote

[Mason Lipman]

Thanks so much. I really appreciate it :)