Flight

How does it feel to fly?

I would ask a bird if I could; how perfectly evolved for the sky.

I bet it would feel so good.

How must it feel and what must it think?

As it soars higher and higher, does everything else shrink?

To be king of the clouds, I would die for the dream.

I bet it is as glorious as it seems.

My head hurts and my eyes felt heavy.

I can’t see anything, nor can I feel; I’m trapped in a senseless void with nothing but my thoughts. Isolated with no chance of escape – where am I?

My splitting headache slowly begins to subside and my eyelids lose their weight.

I can smell the air; it lacks any sort of flavour but a gentle cooling seeps into my nostrils. To complement the cold air, I can hear rushing; it must be a tide, so I’m at a beach?

As my eyes adjust to the intense brightness, my eyes water and I feel droplets randomly but slowly form across my body, perhaps a tide is washing over me?

I cannot smell the salt, and I cannot hear the crashing of the foamy waves on rocks or sand. I cannot hear the seagulls screeching for food or companionship. I cannot deduce any sounds or smells of human presence and although my vision seems fully recovered, I fear that my vision may be clouded. I can make out a subtle blue surrounding me, an ocean of emptiness and azure; but a fogginess remains. I will myself to rub my eyes but no arms or hands come to my aid, perhaps they’re tied or stuck? I blink repeatedly but to no avail; everything remains as mysterious as before. Focusing my eyes, I make out a shape which seems to my moving and as it grows closer, I realise that something is coming for me.

Maybe they can help, whoever it is. Perhaps they’re my captors? My arms did seem unavailable and I continue to fail to place them. The tiny army approaches and I can make out some whites which almost blend in with the azure void. Their bodies are a mixture of grey with some brown tones and they are not human. They have beaks...and wings. I spot their wings smacking at their environment as if they're pushing themselves up at its expense.

They're flying?

Yes, they're flying and they're high in the sky… and so am I!

Am I falling? Is this how I die? I close my eyes, again, out of fear.

Seconds pass and I open my eyes again. I don’t give up. I shall not die, I shall escape.

If I were to be falling, then they would struggle to keep up with my velocity, so I must be suspended in the air too, somehow.

The mistiness of my eyes is suddenly explained! If I am in the sky, then I must be in a cloud. Yes, I am in a cloud! Although they look warm and fluffy, they are cold in an almost soothing manner and this particular cloud is slowly condensing as more droplets collect across my body and drop off to the world below.

So, I’m in the sky and I’m inside a cloud. So why couldn’t I use my arms? Certain to be content with my answer, I turn my head to survey how I would need to retrieve my hands and then I notice something unreal.

I don’t have arms anymore: I have wings.

I focus on the birds which are metres away and realise I have no time to express my shock or confusion. I need to move!

At this very revelation I begin to attack the sky as do the birds heading for me; concentrating on my left wing, I turn to face the other way before evening out my flapping.

Dare I say my dream has come true, I am flying!

Making use of my new wings, I scan the sky which is like an endless ocean. Swimming in the clouds is a privilege I thought I would never experience; the air smacks at me, forcing me to squint as it enviously reacts to my movement. The air gains a furiosity that makes me believe it wishes to take me out - the winds have such a temper, what have they to be angry about?

I hold my wings still so that I glide through the sky and decrease in altitude, I have never been one for confrontation and I'm sure the wind would have its way with me if I stay any longer.

The world below me increases in its contrasts and I start to notice different shapes. Colours and movement become more prevalent the lower I swoop and I can't help but laugh; this is all I have ever wanted. I hear the birds as they follow me as they reply with their own laughter or cries of triumph - perhaps they are dreamers like me.

Glass towers meet the clouds as I soar over the city; so much movement goes on below me. I see cuboids moving and reflecting the sunlight and street lights – these are how birds see cars, like metal ants that slowly follow grey trails. Even tinier ants move in swarms along pavements and are like dust sweeping in a sunbeam. All of the worries and commotion of humanity seems so trivial and insignificant from above; part of me never wants to return to a life as busy as below me.

Making my way out of the city, the glass towers fall in number and are replaced by dull oranges fixed in their spots and I come to realise these are roofs. How boring and stationary our houses are, and I live in one of those and am confined to the ground by gravity. A life like that pales in comparison to the luxury of the skies. I can spot vibrant greens which shake and wave as I get closer and closer, noticing the sunlight shining and reflecting off the leaves of trees and blades of grass in an endearing silver. Does the grass feel different at the feet of a bird? Because I find that my legs and toes are no more and I now have three clawed toes, bird-feet.

It’s surreal, some patches of grass come up to my neck and the grass itself is heavier than I remember, but perhaps I am lighter than I used to be. In place of a nose and mouth I have a sharp beak and gnaw at the grass to find that it cuts quite well, like a hot sharp knife through a mushroom. With a piece in beak, I make my way to my new flock and pass it to the closest, beak to beak.

They are birds, as I am, but a feel a connection – almost a human link bonding us together. Perhaps this is a dream and these are my loved ones.

Of course it has to be a dream, for what comes next shows it must be a trick of the mind.

A bird’s ear is not where a human’s is. I realised as I could gage the sound of the wind through the grass as if I had turned my human-head and placed my ear close – however I was looking straight ahead. The bird-ear is located just under each eye; a hollow high-pitched wheeze accompanied the wind as it caused the grass to sway. I never pondered the differences between humanity and the animal kingdom and I find a newfound appreciation and wonder for all other life-forms.

Right now I am a bird but my thoughts are as profound as a human’s – is this because I am human, or is it rather that animals are more intelligent than we give them credit?

I wonder if there was a way we could fi-

B O O M .

It was like an explosion! I turned my head and found that my friends are flying away, all except one. With a piece of grass between its yellow beak, it was frozen; she was frozen. I don’t know why I feel like I know it’s a she, but I love her as I would my mother. Is it my mum? Is she hear with me, in this dream?

Across the field is a silhouette with a gun, which explains the sound of that explosion. Had I been aware of my periphery, which is not as impressive as it was when I was human, I would have been able to warn my friends. But why was she frozen? Was she my mum?

B O O M .

She was hit – but rather than a bloody wreck in pieces, she had disappeared.

With very little time to contemplate why this was the case, I shrieked a cry of retreat and watched as my flock dispersed in desperation. The murderer is reloading his wretched weapon and I began to charge with my bird-feet and flap with my wings. He is going to pay.

The closer I get to the man, the quicker I’m realising that he’s not possible. He was a silhouette from afar but remains so even metres away; and with the human shape I see huge wings and red glowing eyes. Is this an angel or a demon?

I also see that his gun is locked and loaded and I am now an arms-length from the barrel of the gun, flapping furiously to tilt and prepare to engage my claws through this monster.

B O O M .

I fail to get my revenge.

And it all clicks into place.

He was the king of dreams, and he shot me before I could cry.

Flying was glorious, but this was my gift before I died.

When we are asleep and we dream of dying, we wake up before we experience death.

This is because we have yet to taste such a fate, and our brain wakes us up to save us.

But what if we dreamt as we died and the dream ended with a final shot?