by Travis Borne
She opens her eyes and slowly turns around, south toward home. A throbbing spark glints deep within the centers of each of her grand pupils. Surrounded by a moat of brightening blue, as if being backlit, her eyes pulse with vivacity. Her gas-sucking trumpet of a mouth opens wide. She begins to suck, and suck, and suck as her eyes go wider, wider, wider. And the sinuating, living fog of the forest travels into her lungs. She holds it, then releases.
“I can!”
Her run is a dragster at green, her leap is twice beyond the limitations she thought she had. Tariah’s spirits are as bright as the warm star she saw in her vision; and somehow, its yellow light is transcending time.
“It’s empowering me!”
The idea of it all, possibility, colors, brightness, another world, billions of twinkling lights in the sky! Her thin but strong muscles scream with life and her mind explodes with new visions. She opens her mental channel again—and shares it with every being on her planet.
Eyes widen, and trumpets really do blare. Funnel-shaped mouths echo imagination and creativity around the gloomy and starless world where little happens and weeks are years. One single rock, orbiting a dim brown-dwarf in a void of pitch darkness, sparks. A billion candles in the homes of a billion citizens on a rock possessing less gravity than it should have—for the laws of physics have grown tired—rekindles its flame. A massive world heading nearer and nearer to lights-out-for-good, shines brightly once more. The last world in the universe, the very last star…
A man had once existed.
A man who believed he could, and did.
And this man’s voice was heard once more, before the dying of the light.
123. Farewell Flight
“I ain’t takin’ no for an answer, Martin,” Fran blasted. “Now you log us in and get your butt in there with us!” On screen at the BROCC, Martin simply smiled.
“Fran, I’d rather relax for our last hour,” Nanny said. “How about the picnic map, maybe the canyon, the beach would be very nice. You're gonna end up giving me a heart attack before the machines even get here.”
“That sounds fine with me,” Martin added. “Either way, I'm in. How about a vote?”
“There’ll be no votin’. Now, one last flight! I have something I want to show both of ya.” Fran choked up a little. “Nanny, it’s important. A quick, short flight in a map they hadn’t allowed me since—”
“Since you took us into that barn,” Nanny interrupted. “I still remember the crash like it was yesterday. Pig poop, eggs, and—”
“I told ya to hang onto the line, then you wouldn’t have fallen into the shit.”
“And the farmer’s entire family just stood there, laughing at us—”
“At you,” Fran said, her laugh working its way out. “I walked down the line and hopped off clean.” Inside the screen behind the HAT, Martin, with his nerdy, taped glasses, still wearing the pocket protector, laughed too. Fran continued, “But I took care of the laughin’ bastards, didn’t I?”
“You did, Fran, you sure did—” Nanny sighed. “—I’m so glad the black-bag program has been retired. That was the last time, wasn’t it?” Nanny’s face relaxed, as well the seemingly 150-year-old, loose skin encasing it; she ceded with a follow-up sigh.
“Our pact,” Fran replied. She put her arm around her white-haired bud. “Yes, it was—the very last time we killed, best decision we ever made. Remember how we got wasted that same night, up in our apartment—”
“And you—”
“No, it was you!” Fran blasted, reinvigorated once again. “Martin, Nanny here let out the stinkiest damn fart—fuckin’ eggs and corn, maybe even some dead bodies. You must’ve been eatin’ somethin’ dead, you old bag.”
“It wasn’t that bad, Fran.” Nanny’s old body snapped to life, badinage kicking in; granny chuckles made her bounce. “We sure got plastered though, didn’t we? Got a strike for not showing up the next day.” She turned to Martin. “You know what really stank, Martin? Fran here hit me with the whopper of all whoppers, the next time we logged in, made the DCs vanish almost instantly. Fran, you talking about corn and eggs, Martin, hers was a wet one that could jolt the dead back to life.”
Fran made an angry face that quickly morphed into a proud smile. Nanny returned the best wry face her loose skin could generate. Fran just shook her head as they continued bouncing memories between their dull, graying eyes.
Fran had on her actual pilot’s uniform, which fit her skinny, ancient frame as loose as an empty leather beanbag. Special occasion it was, and she jostled her old bud again, her loose skin swaying as if the memorable moment had somehow sent a breeze into the facility. Martin continued to shake his head at the two.
“All right, Fran, Nanny,” he said, looking side to side at each of the bickering seniors. “Let’s get logged in quickly, we need to keep the buffer up for as long as you two ladies can. Every little bit helps. After the flight we’ll have that toast, and together the three of us will enjoy the beach until the machines get here to finish us off. You mentioned you want to show us something, Fran, well, I have something to show the both of you. Now, no more squabbling, please.” Martin’s eyes rolled up behind his thick-framed glasses and he turned to the door. He was inside the small room, again—it looked like the inside of an enclosed trailer. A small laptop computer, an old one like those from the year 2020, before all computers became obsolete only a couple years later, sat on his desk; save for a tiny florescent light on the ceiling it was the only other thing in the empty box lined with cheap wood paneling. As he opened the door light beamed in as if a nuclear sunrise was radiating outside. Nanny and Fran looked to each other, then back at the screen, both curious to see what could be out there; but that was Martin, once Marlo: machine of mystery.
The door was on the right, the desk straight ahead, and there wasn’t a way to discern what actually could be out there. Marlo sent the two bantering, now curious seniors a sly smile before he disappeared into the oddly warm and inviting light. The door closed and nothing but the simple inside of his box remained on screen; it soon faded to dark and the HAT behind the two old ladies began to pulse like a slow-breathing lung, with a curious orange-yellow glow. Just like the rays from the door Martin had exited, this too possessed a strange power of attraction, anticipation.
Two old birds hopped onto the beds. Blue lights, like quotidian clockwork Monday morning, came up from the sides. And the two fossils, old enough to appear dead on mortuary stretchers, the only persons in the quiescent broadcast room, the only humans in town, logged in. The azure blue lights went bright then pressed gently onto their temples, and a pair of wrinkled faces—one wrapped in an aviator’s leather cap that was hard enough to qualify as a turtle shell, one resting on a hair bun as if it was a pillow—smiled, then fell asleep.
They appeared in a mountain town and there was a sunrise. It was rising from distant mountaintops and shining its light ahead of their gaze, warming their backs. Snow besprinkled mountaintop peaks to their distant right. A small town, quiet and quaint, beginning to bustle; a grassy soccer field lay before them for a hundred feet, before two intersecting streets. Several deer were grazing near trees by the road paralleling their right. To their left was a whitewater river, churning to create a harmonious balance between nature and town; it weaved, carving its way right through the charming, picturesque downtown area, and there were hot springs steaming, mottling spots along the river’s edges. Both looked to each other after a good minute had passed, and their eyes went wide.
Both did a triple, double take.
They were young! Nanny had smooth fair skin and straight blond hair that reached her bottom, and, quite the figure. She was wearing an updated set of duds too, updated like a superhero ready for a night on the town. Tight blue high-gloss latex zipped up from top to bottom, and high heels that gave her at least six inches. A shiny white star divided by the thick chrome zipper, was centered above her breasts, and red and white vertical stripes wrapped her thin was
te. Her face was thin but not too. She possessed gleaming blue eyes that matched her ensemble, and her skin contained more collagen than a woman of say, 21 years.
Fran was still a string bean, with hardly a figure. Her hair was like the deep-red sun beams currently streaming from the mountains behind them. And she had on the exact same aviator’s outfit that she had stored in her closet, the same one she’d pulled out for this very special occasion, their last day alive. But it was brand new. The leather was tan again, and pliable, and it looked fantastic beneath her long and lustrous red hair. She had the highest, borderline-pretentious cheekbones, and her makeup concocted the semblance of a pin-up girl in a fighter-pilot’s uniform: dark, outlined eyebrows angled at least a half inch above the bones of her skull at the ends of her eyes, dipping down only slightly on the ends, teal eye shadow merged into bright grass-green, finally ending with a feathering of chartreuse, then yellow; and her bright green eyes were emeralds. Her eyelashes were long and black, mixed with just the right amount of her natural, unpainted reds speckling the in-betweens. The rugged uniform, aviator cap clipped to her tight waist belt, her lustrous, lion-worthy mane of red hair—beauty achieved a new precipice!
Fran’s smile was antimatter, Nanny’s was matter. The collision of their gaze released an explosion of awe and happiness. Their new eyes devoured the blast of color and vivacity they’d become. After a hug they turned about face, having both caught some motion in the corner of their eyes. Martin? He was locking the side door of—an enclosed trailer.
There was a home behind it, a dark-blue pickup truck parked beside it, as well a basic white car. Trimmed in burgundy, the beige house had a fence made from weathered barn wood, and there were a few soccer balls in the grassy backyard. Just then a glass slider opened at the side of the house and two large dogs went rushing into the backyard: one was a golden retriever, and the other—a monstrous brown one with curly hair—made both Nanny and Fran wonder: “What type of dog is that?” They glanced at each other in awe. This world seemed so real, too real. Those dogs were ecstatic, and as if connected via a mental channel, they thought, perhaps, the woman who had let them out might be—
No, couldn’t be.
Martin spotted them. He turned to face the two bona-fide knockouts standing incongruently in the center of a soccer field, as if, he was seeing a mirage—and his eyes and smile widened.
“Is that him?” Nanny asked. It was the first time she’d heard her new voice: smooth, sensual, with a northern accent; partly she sounded like a foreigner from abroad.
“I—” Fran stuttered. “He—” Fran’s youthful smile was bursting. “This—it’s just what I wanted to show you, but I had only grazed the feeling of it, then.”
Nanny knew exactly what she meant. She had felt it too, that day, when they’d flown higher than ever before, higher, she had speculated later, than the boundary of the map could allow, perhaps faster too, faster than the system could keep up. Old Fran was wild when she had the wheel, every damn time, and Nanny had been scared out of her gourd.
Martin turned to yell something back to the woman who’d opened the door to let the dogs out. “Be right back, babe, I finished it!” The pretty woman congratulated him and also said: “Please, be careful.” Then she went back inside. Nanny and Fran could see the dogs through the slatted fence; they took point and watched Martin attentively, wagging their tails eagerly.
He walked through the soccer field, making a beeline for the young ladies. He was no longer nerdy. It was Martin, but he was different just the same. He had a short beard, neat and trim, and was dressed casually and cool.
“Looking great, ladies,” he said, “now, how about that flight, then we’ll get those drinks.” Martin smiled as if he was holding in another secret, his biggest yet.
Nanny’s mouth fell open, then Fran’s, but neither could utter a word. The same thoughts bounced between their eyes as they looked at each other again, then back to—him. They felt a strange attraction to him, an almost electric connection, as well, to the world around them. It was, as if, this place was more real than any of the maps had been; more real even than Jewel City, as though the resolution of the world had been turned to maximum, then exploded like the purple status had done, far beyond that. The fresh mountain air teased their nostrils as if it was the first time they had actually breathed air. Everything, the smell of the grass, the yellow sun which could be almost heard going esspeeeeeeew, its rays injecting them with warmth, and the feeling of the cool morning’s breath. They squinted as witnesses to its beauty, the beauty of everything, even their youthful, colorful, in-awe selves. And even the sounds: birds and the occasional car or semi passing by on the road through town, above the grassy bank, now to their left as they had turned to face Martin.
As if reading their minds, Martin said, “Here, you can call me Travis. And you might need these.” He handed them each a pair of dark, wraparound, pretty-dang-cool shades, then raised his elbows at his sides. Fran didn’t hesitate, she took Martin’s—Travis’ left, and put on the sporty shades. Nanny smiled and took his right.
“Taking her out again, Trav?” Frank asked, as his friend passed the first open hangar. Travis shot him a two-finger salute and continued to his hangar. In no time he was headed down the runway, east toward the San Juan Mountains of Southern Colorado. And into the bright light. Frank smiled as Trav banked it right, belly to the morning sun.
Travis smiled too, really, really feeling it. He’d awoken early to finish the last chapter of his novel, LENDERS II: The Time Tribulations. Complete! Good feelings were tingles animating his soul. And he smiled as he let Nanny take the yoke. He smiled at her smiling, and was happy that she was happy. Soon it was Fran’s turn. Once Old Red, now Young Red, put both hands on the yoke and pulled back, he said to her, calmly and slowly, “Take it as far as you dare, Fran, take us for the ride of our lives.”
The small plane’s engines reeeened and she did take it high, high, higher than she had ever dared. And Nanny loved it, too; she was no longer afraid to fly with her best friend. Nanny exploded, “Dive, Fran, dive!” And Fran pushed on the yoke. Four hands grabbed armrests tight enough to crush the cushions, and three full-toothed smiles lit the world as Fran pulled up and veered, brushing against the tips of the trees on Reservoir Hill, in Pagosa Springs, Colorado.
124. Thank You
I don’t really own an airplane, but like you, can fly one in my imagination.
All the best, and thank you. I hope you have enjoyed this tale.
~Travis Borne.
travisborne.com
Author Bio
Travis Borne is a father of four fantastic kids. He is supported by his beautiful wife of more than twenty years. Travis is a coder of various programming languages, creates plug-ins for graphic software, designs dynamic websites, and has been in the graphics industry for nearly twenty years. An avid hiker, he loves the outdoors, usually spending an hour or so running or walking before starting the daily grind. A few of his passions include the studies and experiences of lucid dreaming, fitness and nutrition, science, astronomy, particle physics, and of course whipping words into bizarre concoctions.
No matter the temperature you might run into him outdoors, trekking with either of his two large dogs: Miller the sometimes lazy, golden retriever, or George, the newfypoo with boundless energy. Spending time with family is given priority whenever possible. As his wife says, he always pushes things to the extreme—a good thing, and bad, as it has turned out at times.
LENDERS II is Travis’ second novel and he is currently in the process of writing the first draft to, possibly the final experience of the Lender’s trilogy, LENDERS III. Travis has many ideas for future novels and plans to keep at it until he burns himself out—and probably ends up flying real airplanes instead of imaginary ones, or getting himself lost.
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