The speakers spluttered into life, calling the competitors to the track. One by one their names and numbers were announced to the meagre crowd. Every now and then a whoop and cheer would emerge and then fade into oblivion. There was even a rather enthusiastic holler when one runner’s name was called out, probably from his mother. Jerome didn’t receive such a holler, but it didn’t matter anyway, they’d all be cheering his name soon enough.
“On your marks” The runners placed their hands at the start line.
“Get set” The runners raised their buttocks, if the tight fitting clothes didn’t make your grandma swoon then this certainly would.
“GO” The pistol fired, narrowly avoiding a passing bird, and the runners were off.
Jerome stayed in the midst of the pack as they went around the first bend, a few runners broke off and made a break for it but Jerome was nonplussed. He could take them on the final stretch no matter the distance. Jerome remained in the middle of the line, if he kept up this momentum he’d easily make 4th place but he hadn’t come here to be fourth. He picked up the pace, his arms swinging a little faster in sync with his legs until he broke out into a sprint.
“And here we have Jerome closing the gap. Oh and now he’s closed it and heading up to second place. Such velocity!” The commentator was amazed at the sudden burst of instant energy as Jerome approached first position.
“He’s passed Ridley on the final turn to take first place. Ridley is struggling to keep up as Jerome is accelerating to a tremendous speed and GOOOOOOOOOAAAAAALLLLLL” Jerome had crossed the line taking the win. The commentator seemingly forgot that he was commentating on a track event and was still screaming goal until all other competitors had crossed the line. The goal lasted several minutes.
The leader board showed Jerome’s time as the fastest of the day so far, not quite the world record, but that was intentional. He’d give the audience a real show that evening. He rushed up to Coach who was beaming with pride and brushing another award winning single tear from his face.
“You did it, Jerome!” If Coach was referring to winning the race, then it was pretty obvious that Jerome had ‘done it’ and so it was a rather odd statement to point out considering there were quite a few people that had seen him do such a thing. If Coach was referring to something else entirely then that was something that was only known to him and similarly a bizarre thing to say under such circumstances.
“All thanks to you, Coach. What time is it?”
“Almost three” Coach was still clapping in celebration as he spoke even though everyone else had stopped some time ago.
“I gotta get to Hallie”
“Do you want me to give you a ride?”
“Nah, Coach. Too much traffic. I’ll get there and back in time for the race, don’t worry”
“Alright Jerome, you the man” Jerome certainly was a man, whether he was the man is up for debate. “Bring her along, been a while since I’ve seen her”
“Will do, Coach”
“Last I saw her she was so small” By the time Coach had finished his sentence, Jerome was already gone.
Even though he had an important race in a few hours, Jerome was not going to miss the rare opportunity to see his daughter. He knew that if he missed this then it would be far too long until he was able to see her again. The thought raced in his mind as he sprinted towards her school.
When running around a track, there isn’t anything that really gets in your way providing its one of those races where the runners are confined to their lanes. If it were hurdling, however, well that’s another story. Therefore, even when running at high speeds there isn’t much else to focus on save for the lane and the finish line. Jerome wasn’t on the track anymore and was instead racing at full speed down a suburban street, a traffic camera flashed him as he zoomed by, one of the locals flashed him too but not intentionally because Jerome was going at such a high speed it caused the gentleman’s dressing gown to fly off. It was never said why the man was in a dressing gown and nothing else in the mid-afternoon of a Monday, maybe he just liked the feel of the material on his nether regions at that particular time of day.
Jerome was really picking up speed now, everything around him was a blur but his mind was clear and fixated on getting to his daughter on time. As a result of the blurred vision, Jerome didn’t see the humble fly buzzing around up ahead. It was having a pleasant day flying about aimlessly having just met up with a special fly to perform its mating duty. The fly had laid the groundwork in advance and spent time wooing the other fly but on this fine Monday all the effort was worth it. If flies could smile, this one’s would be ecstatic. It was a shame then, that after having such a nice day, it collided with Jerome’s eyeball and came out the back of his skull.
TIMOTHY
It’s difficult to say whether or not birds are fascinated by flight as much as humans, to them it’s probably as mundane as walking is to us. And yet, humans have strived to attain new heights since the concept of flight entered our primitive brains. Ornithologists spend their days watching birds, perverts spend their days pretending to be ornithologists watching a different kind of bird. At the dawn of the twentieth century, the Wright Brothers flew their first plane kick starting the aviation industry, however this can be disputed as it is a little known fact that birds were flying long before the Wright Brothers and there were even flying dinosaurs long before that!
With the exception of our feathered friends, humans have been limited to using manmade contraptions to take to the skies, great lumbering sheets of metal riveted together in such a way that allows it to defy the laws of gravity and make Sir Isaac Newton rather cross. But, in our imaginations we long to be able to fly like birds (albeit sans-feathers) without the need for our metal beasts.
Being scared of heights is a common and rational fear, some people say that it’s not the falling that’s scary but the landing, those people have clearly never been thrown off of an extremely high building before. Timothy, like many other people, shares this fear of heights and had indeed never fallen off of a very high building before. He’d avoid standing too close to railings unless they were comfortably above waist level, insist on his apartment being no higher than the fifth floor and never once had he left the country on an airplane. Yes, this caused some minor issues in his life, but overall it hadn’t hindered him and he was quite content living his life with his feet solidly on the ground. It was shame when he developed the power of flight.
Timothy was on his way to work when he realised he had suddenly developed the ability to fly, however, at the time, he wasn’t sure of the extent of his powers. It was a Tuesday, the day that falls between the start of the week and mid-week where nothing particularly interesting happens. Timothy worked as an accountant at a food packaging factory that packaged pet food. The company in question registered itself as Woof despite never once selling dog food and exclusively selling food for hamsters. it wasn’t the nicest smelling job, but at least there were no heights involved as is usually the case for accountants in their skyscraper offices. It suited Timothy just fine. He’d walk to work most days, weather permitting, and sip on a coffee black two sugars. On his walk he’d encounter the same people day in day out going about their business to whatever destination they were heading to. Dull. Repetitive. Despite the factory environ, Timothy always wore smart shoes to work – he was an accountant after all – and as such these shoes would clip-clop with every step, it took Timothy sometime to realise that the clip-clops had stopped. When he looked down, he landed on the ground with two clops as his shoes hit the pavement (sidewalk to our American friends). It wasn’t like Timothy to spontaneously hop on the street, he would know, but seeing as there was no other logical explanation, Timothy discerned that he must’ve hopped, or why else would he suddenly be fifteen centimetres off the ground? Indeed, there’s nothing wrong with spontaneously hopping on one’s walk to work, just be warned that you may get some strange looks if you do so.
The acco
untant’s office at Woof was about as glamorous as you’d expect. A wonky desk sat underneath an array of exposed pipes with a less than welcoming leather sofa that had seen better days nestled against the far wall, it was the epitome of class and elegance. To get to his chair, Timothy had to first hop over the puddle that was forming by his door and then prance over the stack of papers that had slid off the desk. When he landed safely on his chair, he placed his papers for the day in front of him and then watched as they joined their comrades on the floor. Why he started every day like this was a mystery, he knew full well that the desk was not suitable to support any more than two sheets of paper at a time, and yet he would place his entire stack on the surface every morning. It’s not like he wasn’t fully conscious in the mornings like most people, he was quite the opposite, didn’t even need a morning coffee to wake up, he just liked the taste. Perhaps he would watch the papers fall because it reminded him of the futility of existence in that no matter how much we have to do or get done, it will inevitably end up on a heap, forgotten and that nothing really matters. Or perhaps he just liked watching them slide off the desk - some people have twisted fetishes after all, this could well be Timothy’s. Who are we to judge?
“Mornin’ Timbuktu” Greeted his manager who stepped in the puddle, didn’t realise, and then flopped onto the drab leather sofa. Timothy was a Timothy. Not a Tim, not a Timmy, and certainly not the ancient city in Mali.
“I’m goin’ on a little trip with Tara this weekend. Take a few hundred out of the accounts would ya and put it down as expenses. Get it done.” Tara was neither the manager’s wife nor mistress, indeed, this was an entirely new one to add to the plethora of women that scumbag was involved with. “Actually, this sofa is pretty comfortable. Get out, I’m taking a power nap” Timothy wasn’t surprised about being kicked out of his own office, he was, however, surprised about anyone finding that turd of a sofa comfortable. Then again, his manager did seem steamingly drunk.
Timothy navigated the stack with one deft leap and then, having done it so many times before, he hopped over the puddle without looking. And then, having done it so many times before, he looked down to check that he didn’t get any water on himself. He would have acted cool and nonchalant but Timothy was neither cool nor nonchalant and so he felt compelled to ensure his clothes were free from residue, besides, there was no knowing exactly what fluid was being dripped from those pipes - better safe than sorry. Timothy looked down at his shoes, he hadn’t cleared the puddle at all and was in fact hovering just above it. Timothy felt a pang of anxiety as he lingered there as quietly as possible so as not to wake his manager slumbering nearby. He needed to get down and out before his manager or indeed anyone saw him. Gravity was on a smoke break it seemed, it had failed him and so Timothy resorted to jumping thinking that perhaps a double jump would nullify the first jump and he’d land back on the ground. Clearly, Timothy hadn’t played many video games, for if he did he would know that a double jump does not nullify the first and in fact serves the purpose of propelling the character higher. As such, Timothy was now a whole two foot (that’s a unit of measurement equalling 60.96cm for our American friends) above the puddle.
A single drop of, let’s presume water, braced itself for its freefall into the puddle below. Timothy grunted at his failure and decided it was best to stay still for the time being while he figured out the best course of action, surely if anyone were to figure out how to get back down to earth after seemingly floating without any visible propellant it would be an accountant. Surely? The water drop was super excited, as though it’s entire life was building up to this brief moment of ecstasy. The freefall was rapidly approaching as the tiny other drops within the pipe eased their sibling closer to the edge. Then the drop was released. It’s whole life had been building up to this moment, now it was finally happening and the little drop couldn’t believe it, if it could shout ‘weeeeee’ it would as the rush of air was titillating the drop beyond belief. Then it’s epic journey was suddenly cut short as it crashed onto the accountant’s head. In its last moments, the drop felt cheated of its destiny, deeply upset and disgusted about being left on the accountant’s gleaming dome. Then Timothy wiped it off his bald patch, ending it’s life.
Still a good two foot in the air, Timothy tried jumping again seemingly forgetting that it failed miserably the last time. And yet, he succeeded in landing back on the ground, if by succeeding you mean rising higher and hitting your head on the exposed pipes before crash landing into the puddle sending splashes of water all over your boss and creating a loud thudding noise. If that’s your measure of success, then Timothy was extremely successful.
“What the hell you balding bastard! You’re fired, get the hell out of here!”
The sentence was severe, it’s not like Timothy had given his boss reason to fire him before, he’d always kept his mouth shut and did his job never once complaining and always bowing to his overlords’ wishes. Maybe when his boss sobers up he’ll get his job back, although this was unlikely as said boss had a debauchery-fuelled getaway with Tara over the weekend and would more than likely forget he’d even fired Timothy. It’s not like anyone would notice he’d gone, everyone fudged the books, some had the decency to ask him to do it for them, others simply took from the piggy bank and put a finger to their lips like a sinister librarian. Timothy left the building and just like that he was unemployed.
Timothy climbed the stairs to his apartment, opened the door, took a microwave meal for one and pierced the film lid several times. He wasn’t picturing his boss as he stabbed the meal, he was picturing himself lingering in mid-air, even the thought made him terrified, he wanted to kill the fear and unleash his true potential. There was so much spare time available now that he didn’t have a job and he had enough saved up (what with him being an accountant and all and therefore smart with his money) that he could afford taking a couple of months off to find his feet. His meal rotated under the dim light of the microwave, maybe he’d take up pottery.
The former accountant was lost in a dream of making a clay vase while music played like in the infamous scene from that film, so lost that when the microwave signalled that the lonely meal was ready he sprang up. Literally. The velocity was intense, it was a good job that Timothy had high ceilings otherwise he’d have likely broken his neck, as such he stopped just shy of bumping his bald patch. As he looked down the fear hit him as hard as he would’ve hit his head on the ceiling had we not established earlier that he had high ceilings. Out of fright, Timothy passed wind as it were. The flatulence was long, drawn-out and a little wet sounding but it had the effect of bringing Timothy down gently. He had hoped that this was not the only means of landing as his bouts of flatulence tended to leave a foul smell. Unfortunately, the pairing of the foul smell and the fear had stolen his appetite and it made it unbearable to be in the room. He opened the windows and stood outside, allowing the room to air out.
As he stood outside of his apartment, he could hear the general hubbub from the other residents and the general commotion from the traffic outside. It was comforting in a way. The stairs to his right inspired Timothy to make a leap of faith. Maybe he was high from the putrid scent or maybe he was just finished and wanted to end it all. Timothy took a run up, and then threw himself down the stairs.
He didn’t feel the concrete hit him repeatedly as he tumbled down the stairs as there was only one hit, the hit from the wall. Timothy had flown down the 28 steps and crashed shoulder first into the wall below, he then slid down the wall and landed on the floor with a soft thud. It was neither broken nor dislocated but it sure as heck was going to leave a bruise. He got up, groaned, and then made his way back up the stairs and into his apartment to fetch the ice pack he didn’t have and would be forced to inevitably use the frozen peas which everyone seems to have in their freezer for such an occasion. More scientific research needs to be done on the healing properties of frozen peas. It is rumoured that some people actually eat them!
When
the throbbing had subsided somewhat, Timothy took his frozen peas with him to the sofa and he slumped onto it and turned on the television. His left hand nursed his shoulder and his right hand flicked through the channels until he stumbled upon a nature documentary, the kind with a sweet elderly British man narrating the scenes and inexplicably standing next to wild animals that you’d expect to tear arms out of sockets. This particular documentary was focused on birds of prey. Timothy watched in awe at the swooping camera shots that followed the birds as they homed in on their kill. It made him a little sick as the motion was akin to that of a rollercoaster, not that Timothy had ever been on one, and yet he was stupefied at the majesty of the creatures’ flight. He knew that he could be like them, albeit without the feathers and beak, but he also knew his crippling fear of heights would prevent him from ever attaining such a level of majesty. Saddened by the sudden realisation that he could never fly as effortlessly as the birds on the screen, he skipped to the next channel where there was a magic show airing. The magician in question was allegedly a hypnotist, he had taken ‘random’ members of the audience and put them in a trance
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