A Little Like Flying
by Michael Tyler
A razor sharp hunting knife is cause for concern at the best of times and yet the blade offers vague reassurance as I accept and rehearse on nearby trash, clean clear slice till all hang in strips as Sam smiles and runsher fingers through her boyish cut.
A figure in the background raises the volume, drinks are raised, '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 longhair, "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 entices 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 tone.
Fallen child of theBible 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 andholds 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 and 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 Ilie once more with Sam by my side.
Michael Tyler is a Short Story and Flash Fiction writer from Gulf Harbour, New Zealand. Michael hopes to have a collection of his work published some time in the next few decades ... Contact Michael.
