by Rue Sparks
Clay is tempted to take Ian at his words, but there’s something about the tone that speaks of an undercurrent of longing.
Ian stands when he’s finally stacked the papers in one arm and balanced his laptop in his other hand and starts heading towards the door with a careful clanking.
“Ian, wait,” Clay calls out and doesn’t give him the chance to decide to ignore him. “You know, part of being the hero is deciding who you want to be.”
Ian pauses, halfway out the door, and Clay continues, “You don’t have to be a knight. But there was something about being them that you aspired to. Even if you can’t be the hero, maybe just this once, you can do the right thing.”
Ian doesn’t respond, and the door closes with a barely audible click.
Later that day, Clay gets an email from Yuna that Ian has removed his proposal from the queue, and Clay is unsurprised when he looks up at a passing Ian to see him sporting his typical cardigan and black pants.
The Wild is sunshine and calm seas, and Clay can’t figure it out. It’s never been like this. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do here.
When he had landed on the shore of an island, he had expected to be attacked by orcs, trolls, and goblins, but instead, he found remains of ancient civilizations that hosted only the occasional worthless relic and mismatched set of tools or clay pots.
He wanders the whole island in a daze without any combat, loot, or traps before giving up and boarding his ship. The sun beats down on the wooden deck, warming his face and forcing him to squint along the horizon.
There are no ships and few land masses. There are no dangerous sea creatures or dragons to be bested.
And yet, Clay feels a sense of belonging that far outweighs the reckless abandon he always feels in the Wild. It’s as if he’s in a waking dream, a settled contentment he’s not experienced since childhood.
Can we twist our dreams somewhere along the lines? he wonders.
He has no answer, so he does what he knows best; he sets sail to a new horizon. But this time, he does so with an open heart.
“Clay?”
“I’m in here! Kim’s home; you’ll have to say ‘hi,’” Clay says to his mom on the laptop screen. “It’s been a while since you two had a chat.”
Kim slinks into the living room, arms crossed and a dour expression on her face. Still angry at me. I don’t blame her.
When she sidles up next to him her expression changes. Probably for Mom’s sake. “Hello Gwen,” Kim says with a small wave. “How are you doing? It’s been a while.”
“Oh, lovely, now I see your face! I hope you’re keeping Clay in line. He needs someone like you to keep him looking up.” Gwen’s smile is wide, her short white hair framing large black plastic glasses over brown eyes. She’s in a folding chair in front of a well-maintained garden, her pride and joy.
“The garden looks lovely,” Kim says, a genuine smile on her face. “And you know how Clay is. Stubborn,” she says, elbowing him, “but he has his own charm.”
Gwen laughs, and Clay rubs at his side where Kim elbowed him harder than necessary. I deserved that.
“He is that. Which is why I was so surprised to hear from him! We usually have our calls twice a month like clockwork, but here he calls me out of the blue. You wouldn’t have anything to do with that, would you?”
Kim’s eyebrows furrow, and she steals a glance at Clay. “No, actually. I’m as surprised as you are.”
Gwen’s smile softens as she looks at her son. “Well, that does surprise me. And we’ve been having such a wonderful conversation at that. Do you want to tell her what you asked me, or should I?”
Clay shrugs, avoiding both of their gazes and shoves his hands in his pockets. “I asked what my childhood dreams were.”
Kim snorts, then blinks in confusion when he doesn’t react. “Wait, seriously? You, asking about childhood dreams?”
Clay shrugs and bites at his lip. “I can’t quite remember what they were. Mom was enlightening me.”
“He had so many when he was young, but once he hit six it was the same one, year after year. But he was so shy, he would only share it with the people he trusted the most. Maybe he was afraid people would laugh at him; I don’t rightly know.”
Kim smiles and encircles Clay’s arm with her own, leaning into his side.
“I think that’s sweet.”
“Anyway, I must be going, but please stay in touch, both of you. I’ll talk to you on our monthly call?”
Clay nods, finger hovering over the mouse. “Of course.”
“Ta!” Gwen says, then disconnects, Clay following suit.
When Clay leans back from the laptop, Kim turns him towards her, setting her hands on his shoulders. “So. Your childhood dreams, huh?”
Clay sighs and clasps her hands within his own. “You were right, Kim. I was wrong to judge you.”
Kim leans back in surprise. “What?”
“You deserve to be treated like a princess,” Clay continues.
“And a ninja, and a fairy, and a catgirl. Whatever you want to be, I’ll support you.”
Kim grabs his chin and tilts his face towards her, so they lock gazes.
“No more complaining about the cosplay?”
Clay smiles. “None. Except when I step on beads or leather tacks, then I reserve the right to complain that they’re on the floor.”
“Deal.”
It is later, after Kim has finished brushing her teeth and is headed to the bed they sometimes share that Clay risks a look into the mirror.
He looks first into his own brown eyes and rusty brown hair. Slowly, he lets his gaze travel down his torso towards his clothing, and a smile forms.
Some dreams change.
Some could be reborn.
5
Watch As I Fly
The dream is always the same.
The feel of the wind is like a balm — it soothes an itch beneath her skin. The cool air blows back her short-cropped hair to her skull. Her eyelids squint tight around her eyes, caught in the blossoming freedom of flying free. The sting of the wind tastes less like danger and more like home. Her clothes cling tight in front of her and loose and wild behind her as they whip and billow in the passing air.
She is flying. Not within the confines of an airplane, not falling like a skydiver or even gliding on a parachute. She is flying of her own accord, her own power, her own whim.
The feeling fills her lungs to bursting.
“I had that dream again,” Joy says at breakfast. She swirls the dingy milk in her cereal bowl, now filled with the dredges of cinnamon and granola crumbs. The spoon clinks noisily against the side of the bowl, and though she winces at the noise, she continues. “It’s going to be one of those days I guess.”
“Joyful thoughts, Joy,” Moira says between sips of her tea, perfectly lined lips leaving traces of crimson lipstick on the edges. Her fingers tap at her phone, eyes focused on the slim screen. “You manifest the energy you put out.”
If only, maybe you’d look my way, Joy thinks but doesn’t say out loud. Two years together, six months past moving in, and only Moira’s dedication to perfection — a place for everything, even love — keeps their hearts sutured together.
“It’s always like this,” Joy mutters, not sure if she’s talking about Moira’s absent-mindedness or her prophetic dreams of an abysmal day.
Moira doesn’t look up from her phone, her reply a distracted monotone. “There are no absolutes. There’s no such thing as always or never. Remember what your therapist said.”
Joy lets go of her spoon, and the sound as it clatters against the bowl makes her jump. She grabs her elbows with either hand, her fingers chilled from the cereal bowl. She cocoons her head deeper in her jumper but says nothing. She watches the clouds pass by in the ceiling-height windows, imagines the dragon-shaped one setting fire to the kitchen table and wonders whether that would warrant a glance her way if it did.
I hang out with too many eight-year-olds
, she thinks, and takes her cereal bowl to the sink.
She flies over streets lined with lights twinkling as if on strings in the distance, the darkness of the ocean an abyss below her that doesn’t scare her but makes her feel like the rest of the world is only an anthill for her to tread on if she so chose.
When she flies closer to the city, she can hear the shouts and exclamations of the crowd below, and it only reminds her of everything they lack, all she now possesses.
But that is not how the dream ever ends.
When Joy became a teacher, she thought having summers off for the rest of her life as an eternal blessing, the infinite equalizer that made all the madness of the school year seem worth it. In reality, summer means free time, which for Joy means boredom. She has few friends, fewer which are available during the time of year when most of them have vacations and family time.
You have to have family to have family time I suppose, Joy thinks, dropping her phone onto the couch cushion again. The steady thump of the repeated action feels cathartic, if pointless.
She is sprawled on the beige sectional in the living room, legs at a ninety-degree angle so her feet can cling precariously to the ottoman where the remotes sit uselessly. She’d long since tired of Netflix and Hulu. The noonday light shines through the large skylight in the living room ceiling and the large picture windows along the walls. It is a beautiful room, in a beautiful house.
She hates it.
A sudden bang and Joy lets go of her phone too soon. It clatters onto the wood floor, sliding under the legs of the ottoman. She winces, then looks around. Moira wasn’t meant to be home for hours, yet the sound came from nearby.
Joy stands up shakily, heart still pounding rapidly from the sudden noise. She looks around the walls, thinking perhaps a painting or photo fell from a nail. Nothing.
She walks through the living room, peeks through the kitchen, the hallway, through the patio doors to be safe. Still, nothing.
“Get it together, Joy,” she urges herself, and flops back down onto the sofa, the sudden drop reverberating through her bones. She lets out a sigh, facing up towards the ceiling and the skylight.
She blinks once, twice, and squints her eyes to focus on the high ceiling.
There’s a bird perching on the seam of the skylight, staring down its jet-black beak at her.
As she flew, the wind lost its power, twisting from mighty to meek. At first, she finds herself flying lower. Then, instead of flying, she is making great leaps from building to building.
The cruelest moment is when only she is convinced she can fly at all. The people around her shake their heads, others laughing cynically or cruelly. Disbelieving and pitying.
It’s in that moment of having had something grand and now knowing only its loss that she wakes up.
The ladder leaning against the outer wall of the house staggers underneath her feet, and Joy twists her hips to try and stay upright. Her heart flutters, and she grips the cracked wood so hard she feels the sting of splinters.
When the ladder steadies, she risks looking up, and sure enough, the bird is still there. “I can’t believe I’m doing this. What’s wrong with me? You better not shit on that window you damn thing! It’ll be hell to clean off, you know!”
At first, Joy was surprised to see a bird perched on the skylight. It cawed at her, a throaty, brittle sound that made her shiver. The longer it stood there, though, the more she realized that something must be wrong. Most likely the bird had flown into the skylight, which was at an angle, and it was either dazed or injured.
She called Animal Control, but they had only said to let the bird take its time. Joy knew better, though; a storm was coming, and while the bird wasn’t likely to get hurt by a little rain, if it were to fall from the roof, it may not survive the impact.
She debated calling Moira but quickly dismissed the thought as nonsense.
“Stay still!” Joy calls out, more to keep her own nerves in check than anything else. She is almost to the edge of the roof, the ladder she’d leaned against the wall steadier now that she isn’t at the midpoint where she can’t touch the building. Her knees feel weak, her hands sting from the splinters, and she feels woozy — but she is almost there.
When she reaches the top, she leans forward to place her hands, then her knees, then her toes on the roof. The rough tiles scrape at the palms of her hands, but she is thankful for their grip. She is on a part of the roof with a slightly different angle than the skylight, one side over.
She starts to inch her way towards the bird, where it is now cawing loudly and consistently, staring at her with black beady eyes. There are no other noises, even the other birds silent, presumably not wanting to become involved in the drama.
“Stop your yapping,” she says. The wind kicks her dark hair into her eyes, and she mutters under her breath how thankful she is that she didn’t let Moira convince her to keep it long. “I’m coming, I’m coming.”
When she reaches the corner of the roof where the angle changes, she rolls onto her back, feet flat against the roof tiles. The sudden change in view sends her mind reeling; she peers over the edge, and the view of the tree line catches her off guard.
“This is … higher than I remember,” she says to no one but the bird. The bird only caws in reply.
After the dizziness passes, she decides to go back onto her hands and knees, not liking the view. Her palms are sore, the gritty texture of the tiles cutting into her hands now, but she presses on.
She’s a foot away from the bird — when it flies off. “You bastard!” Joy cries.
It’s then that she loses her footing.
The roof tiles slide away before her eyes, and then she’s flying.
She knows they see her. She knows because she hears the gasps, the screams, the yells, the calls. There’s confusion, for sure, some whoops, still more screams. No one knows what to make of her, and the thought sends a thrill to her fingertips.
She flies between the high rises, daringly ghosts her fingers along the glass windows of a skyscraper as she whizzes up along it. She laughs when she reaches the top and allows herself to touch one sneaker to the tallest point before free-falling halfway down just to feel the flush on her skin.
Joy awakes to an itching on the back of her neck and stinging palms. She blinks back spots when she opens her eyes, using her palm to shade them from the orange glow of the sun. A sun that’s much further down the horizon than she remembers.
She turns onto her side. There’s nothing but freshly mowed grass and crushed leaves, sticking to her face, clothes, and hair. She wipes one arm across her mouth, sputtering out dirt and blades of grass. “What the hell?”
She looks up and sees the ladder leaned against the house and remembers.
The bird. The ladder. The roof. The flying.
Or more likely, the fall.
She pushes herself up on shaky legs, which tingle with pinpricks as they come alive. She can taste the bitterness of old spit and greenery along with the grittiness of dirt in her mouth. She knows she’s lucky not to be injured — not too much, at least — but she feels a fool. Of course the bird didn’t need my help, she thinks. No one does.
After cleaning out the scratches on her hands with cold water and soap, she checks her phone, which thankfully wasn’t cracked in the fall. Moira is late getting home, which for once is a gift rather than an annoyance. The scrapes on her hands would be a challenge to explain away, but not impossible. Being found knocked out in the grass? That would have been an ambulance ride for sure.
She gingerly lays down on the couch, careful with her aching shoulder and back. She glares at the offending skylight; the bird is nowhere to be seen. There’s no indication there had been anything amiss at all. She knows she will have to remove the ladder tomorrow, but it’s at the side of the house out of the way so Moira shouldn’t see it coming home. Once that deed is done, it will be as if nothing happened. Utterly normal.
She pulls out her phone, unsurpris
ed to see no missed calls, and only one text. It’s from her friend Azalea, who's on vacation in California. She opens it, sure to find more photos of surfing, or white-water rafting, or some other nonsense, but the message is short: “does this remind you of someone? Dish, what have you been up to?!” with a link.
She’s opening it without really registering or caring about what it could possibly be. Her and Azalea get on well enough, but it feels like a friendship of convenience rather than true connection. Still, watching a video from a friend is better than not-rescuing a not-injured bird from the roof.
What Joy sees has her sitting up suddenly on the sectional, grasping at her chest through her t-shirt.
There, in the midst of marshmallow clouds in a beautiful blue sky, flying between two skyscrapers, is a woman.
A woman who looks a lot like Joy.
She kicks up again into flight, spins in the air, legs tight together, feet in points as if she were a ballerina. The wind fights her, but she’s stronger, her bones like steel against its hands as it tries to grab at her and fling her against the buildings.
Nothing can touch her.
“This is stupid,” Joy says, even as she climbs.
She steadied the ladder deeper into the ground before she started climbing this time. The ladder creaks and jerks under her but stays against the wall of her home. Her handhold is more certain this time, her grip raw with determination.
She ignores the sting of a few new splinters, barely registering the pain. The wind blows softer than yesterday, tousling her hair lightly as she climbs. It’s quiet, no cawing of the bird, but few songbirds. Their home isn’t close enough to anyone to hear many neighbors either — something that has been a bonus for Moira, a detriment to Joy.
