A Little Like Flying by Michael Tyler

A hunting knife might be cause for concern at the best of times and yet the blade offers vague reassurance as I accept and rehearse on nearby trash ‘till clean clear slice hangs all in strips as Sam smiles and runs her fingers through her boyish cut.

A figure in the background ups the volume, drinks are raised, and ‘Happy Birthday’ rings out above the fine primal roar of a Hendrix solo as another year above ground is celebrated while strangers, stragglers, lowlife’s, and general strays stagger in various directions.

The forest offers freedom as “Twenty nine, tick, tick, tick …” teases Sam.

She grabs my hand and leads to ragged circle and so we sit in sacred space.

“Four years to go,” I reply as Sam and I each accept a polystyrene cup from a dead-eyed long hair. “I shall pass away at thirty-three, like Christ.”

We toast and tip our heads as harmonica joins Hendrix, the tap, tap, tap of a high hat enticing, and all become one as I recall how we rolled and swayed and swerved through a few stolen nights, and now, barefoot in yellow summer dress, Sam leans back, far back and tilts her head to catch the high white sound we query so often in weary tones.

Fallen child of the Bible Belt, damnation bound, I recall her back arched, her face flushed, she lies and shares what little flesh she is willing to share and her close cropped cut draws attention to the nape of her neck, her shoulders toned and tan.

We close our eyes as we lie, we close our eyes for clarity, we close our eyes and I was hers and she was mine and I recall the ache as she left the room for ice and I recall sweet relief upon her return and the music peaks and dips and peaks and holds and I am flying, I am flying, I am flying and I rejoice despite fear the peak is past.

My eyes blink and blink once more as I rise to survey the scene.

Some have disappeared into the woods, some silently mouth mantra, and some reach to the clouds as Sam takes my hand and a blast like gunshot rings out. Heads rise but no-one follows through and while I reach for the blade, there is grass between my fingers, and with all too much ease, I lie once more with Sam by my side.

© 2013 Michael Tyler

Michael Tyler writes from a shack on a cliff overlooking the ocean just south of the edge of the world. Michael has been fortunate enough to have been published in several literary magazines and continues to plan for a short story collection to be published some time before the Andromeda Galaxy collides with ours and the lights go out for good …

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