Flyboy

Gust of wind battered the small community of Shadows Brook. Well, really the word community was a bit of a stretch when used to describe Shadows Brook. In reality it was nothing more than a series of six A framed, two story wooden cabins that sat tucked away on the side of a volcano.

As a boy Crowley was terrified every time that his mother dragged him to the cabin. Crowley had grown up in the nineties. An era dominated by movies that highlighted the dangerous nature of volcanoes. Why his grandmother had decided to buy a house along the side of such a dangerous force of nature puzzled Crowley. Why his mother insisted on dragging him up there every summer greatly bewildered him. But by far the craziest mystery was why his grandmother had entrusted the cabin to him upon her death.

Still, family traditions can be tough to break. Once Crowley had started a family of his own, he quickly began dragging them up to the cabin every summer. He had hoped that the yearly trips would bring them together. Perhaps they did for a while. Back when Jack was just a boy and he was on speaking terms with Claire.

Over time Crowley learned that years were more destructive than lava. It was the years that wrinkled his face, grayed his hair, eroded his joints and fattened his gut. The years that burned wedges through his family. It was the years that left him with nothing to his name other than an aged pickup truck and the Shadows Brook cabin.

None of that mattered to Crowley on that cold, windy Tuesday night. For once he was slightly proud of himself. Proud that he had prepared for the winter storm by grabbing all the essentials. Those of course being two bottles of whiskey, a thirty case of Ulster beer and a birthday cake.

Crowley was at peace as the wind swooped up large chunks of the waist high powdery snow and haphazardly battered the cabins with the cold substance. A desperate attempt to try and ruin his day.

It wasn’t going to work. Happily Crowley twisted off the cap of a bottle of cinnamon whisky, poured himself a glass, sliced off a triangle from his chocolate cake and plopped himself down onto his well-worn loveseat.

His heart nearly skipped a beat as his phone vibrated and pinged. Excitedly he dug the device out of his pocket. He had hoped to see a message from Jack. After all that was all that he needed. A quick text from his son saying, ‘Happy birthday dad, I love you and didn’t completely forget about you. After all that you sacrificed and did for me all these years, how could I forget about you?’

His heart dropped when the screen lit up. There was no message from Jack. Only a notification informing him that someone he followed on Nurv@na had started a live stream. Sadness tried to wash over him, but Crowley fought back against it. Tonight was going to be good. He had everything he needed. He was going to stream episodes of Eastwood, laugh, drink and be merry. Nothing could stop that.

At least that was until he heard the thud. Or perhaps crash would be a better word. Whatever it was, it rocked his cabin so hard that his silverware and TV rattled. “What the hell!” he loudly muttered.

Boiling with annoyance he sat down his glass and plate. It was probably a fallen tree. He had warned the Henderson’s that they needed to cut down their trees before the storm came. Did they listen? Of course not. But those sneaky bastards might try to weasel out of paying him for the damage. He needed to go outside and take a picture of the tree on his cabin before they could remove it and claim something else had damaged his property.

Angrily he threw on his jacket and stomped his feet into a pair of boots. He flung open his front door and saw…a boy?

“Hiya mister,” cheerfully proclaimed the youngster. “I’m Flyboy.”

A million questions ran through Crowley’s head, but the one that came out was simply, “Flyboy?”

“Yes sir. I go wherever the wind blows.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. Where are your parents?”

“Well that depends, mister.”

“Depends on what?”

“Well my mom goes where the moon goes and my dad follows the motion of the ocean.”

“That’s…that’s…well that’s very disturbing kid. I take it you are one of the Peterson’s kids. Always knew that family was odd. C’mon there’s a blizzard. I’ll walk you home. This is no time to play around outside.”

“My home is wherever the wind blows me. Tonight that is here. Can I come inside?”

Crowley eyed the strange little boy suspiciously. He wore a bright red, puffy jacket with a blue stripe running across his chest. A snow covered brown crocheted beanie rested upon his head. Thick, bubbly goggles were suctioned onto his face and his mouth and neck were covered by an orange scarf. 

“You’re one of those Autistic one’s, huh?” asked Crowley.

“Yes sir, I’m very artistic. How’d you know?”

“C’mon in. But,” said Crowley before he jabbed a finger into the boy’s chest. “As soon as the weather allows for you to leave you leave. Got it?”

“Yes sir. As soon as the wind blows hard enough again I’ll leave. I promise.”

“Whatever kid.”

Crowley stepped aside and allowed the boy entry. The boy dragged in an ungodly amount of snow. Something that irritated Crowley, but he was determined not to allow it to ruin his day.

“I got some of my son’s old clothes upstairs. They should fit you.”

“No thank you mister. I can’t take off my suit in public.” Flyboy spread out his arms. He was wearing some sort of flying suit. Crowley had faint memories of seeing skydivers wearing something similar. But to him the boy just looked like a walking red kite.

“Well maybe the suit is fine, but you need to take off that scarf, hat, gloves and probably socks. You’ll get sick otherwise. I’m not trying to get into trouble for child neglect. Now C’mon kid, follow me upstairs.”

Crowley led the boy to Jack’s old room. Without giving it much thought he opened the door and immediately felt a rush of embarrassment wash over him. He had forgotten that on a drunken night a couple weeks ago he had dug out his old artwork. Now it was all strewn about Jack’s old room. He tried to shut the door before the kid could notice, but it was too late. The boy excitedly entered the room like a moth to a flame.

“Whoa mister! I didn’t know that you were an artist too.”

“I’m not. Nobody is supposed to see this stuff.”

“But it’s really good, mister. I really like this one.”

Flyboy stood in front of a painting that depicted the face of a man howling in pain. The background was a dark, almost black, shade of blue. The man’s features were colored and highlighted in a wide range of lighter blues. From his eyes spewed thousands of tear drops scribbled on by a thousand different pens and pencils.

Crowley gulped down a lump in his throat. He had only ever shown that painting to one person in his life, his ex-wife, he never intended for it to be seen by anyone else. In an effort to distract Flyboy he loudly opened a drawer and rummaged for a fresh pair of socks.

“Here are some clean socks that should fit you.”

“Is there a meaning behind this painting mister?”

“There is.”

“What is it?”

“It’s dumb. Take off your hat and socks before you get sick.”

“I will if you tell me what this painting means.”

“Fine,” huffed Crowley. “It’s…well things used to be different. Boys don’t cry, that’s what my dad taught me. So I painted that when I was young and sad. For the rest of my life afterwards instead of crying I just added another teardrop to it. Eventually…well eventually it became that. Ok?”

“That’s really sad, mister,” said Flyboy. The odd little fellow peeled off his soaking wet beanie, scarf and socks. He left the soaking wet articles of clothing on the hardwood, maple colored floor.

Now that the boy’s face was bare Crowley realized that something was off about him, very off. Before he could figure out what it was, Flyboy had moved to the next painting.

This painting consisted of warm earthy hues. It depicted a young faceless man looking into a mirror. Only the reflection in the mirror showed a young faceless woman adorned in a dull pink sundress. Crowley gulped down an even larger lump than before.

“How about this one mister? What does this one mean?”

“Well…um…well…boys don’t wear dresses, that’s what my mother taught me. She caught me a few times wearing her clothes when I was young. I…liked…I wanted…it doesn’t matter. I painted that because of that, that’s it.”

“I get it, mister. And this one?”

Flyboy had moved to a portrait piece of a young good looking man drawn in charcoal. A surge of humiliation ran through Crowley as he attempted to formulate a response.

“I’m not gay,” said Crowley defensively.

Flyboy looked at him with little beady eyes that somehow reminded Crowley of a rodent. “I didn’t say you were mister.”

“Well I’m not ok?”

“Ok.”

Crowley blew out a large sigh. “That’s a portrait of Miguel. We were…it doesn’t matter. He was brave. He was who he was. And…well…he…Miguel taught me that I’m not brave. That’s it.”

“Cool. How about this one mister.”

Crowley was relieved that Flyboy had moved past some of the more embarrassing paintings. The one the boy stared at now was a more surrealist piece. It showed a woman colored by various shades of green holding a bright red heart that melted within her hands.

“That one is supposed to be my ex-wife. You see kid sometimes love doesn’t last forever. Sometimes it melts away, right in your hands. And there’s just nothing that you can do about it. It’s just life. That’s what my ex-wife taught me.”

“There’s only one more mister. What is it about?”

Crowley smiled at the last piece. It was a half-finished mess. It consisted of random splashes of paint covering random clippings from magazines all jumbled together to form a chaotic mess.

“That one is never going to be finished. You see that one is of my son. As a parent you start off with all these plans for your kid. You think they are going to be this, or that. Then things just go and despite your best, or worse efforts some kind of thing just emerges into this world. It’s not the kind of thing that you ever prepared for, or the kind of thing that you expected. And some people might look down at that thing, or hate it, or be disappointed by it, but you…well you will always love that thing. More than anything else and in your heart of hearts it doesn’t matter what others say about it. That thing will always be beautiful and precious to you. That’s what my son Jack taught me.”

Flyboy flashed Crowley a warm smile. Crowley smiled back, but quickly Crowley’s face crumpled up into a look of confusion. Flyboy’s face was furry. Like really furry. Like an animal's face furry.

“You’re a great artist. What’s your next one going to be?”

“There won’t be a next one.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s foolish, kid. No one was ever supposed to see these in the first place.”

“I think you should show them to people. Explain them. I think people will really like them, mister.”

“No they won’t. I’m too old for such foolishness. There is a time when people have a chance to be creative, to make art. Only the truly talented ones, or the ones that go to some fancy school get to keep making art. Like Rian Raymond, or that new guy Kulu something. The rest of us are supposed to abandon our foolish dreams and grow up, become normal. That’s what society taught me.”

“I don’t think that’s true mister.”

“That’s because you’re just a kid, or are you? You look like…you look like a squirrel. Like a half human half squirrel creature. What are you?”

“I am what I am and that's all that I’ll ever be and that’s just fine by me,” replied Flyboy. Just then the wind picked up once more. Resuming its brutal assault on the small cabin. Flyboy’s darkened eyes seemed to light up. “Time for me to go mister.” Hurriedly Flyboy scurried out of the room and began making his way to the front door.

“Wait,” hollered Crowley as he chased after the creature. “Where are you going?”

“Don’t know mister. I’m just Flyboy. I go wherever the wind blows. And you mister are just a painter. You paint whatever your heart tells you. I think it’s time for me to fly and for you to paint mister.”

With that said Flyboy flung open the front door and ran out. By the time Crowley made it to the door the wind had scooped up Flyboy and lifted him into the sky. Without a care Crowley plowed through the waist high snow. As Crowley watched the boy soar through the sky he heard Flyboy’s words echo in his head. ‘I am what I am and that's all I’ll ever be and that’s just fine by me’.

Crowley laughed.

Crowley cried.

And then Crowley laughed again.