'The Writer' by Lisa Williams

I can conjure characters. Rogues and cads or someone delightfully sweet. I have a magician’s flair for creating scenarios with twists and turns. False starts. Red Herrings. Like a god creating a world on a blank page. Little tricks, like metaphors help me craft. But endings: they never come easy. 

'Bioluminescence' by Barbara Renel

She sits on the veranda as daylight fades. A lizard on the wall keeps her company. In the city, the nightly sound of gunshot punctuates sleep, but here, crickets and the occasional tree frog are singing. From the house behind her, the soft glow of oil lamps, the sound of distant, muffled conversations. This is a house that grows as each generation adds a new bedroom, bathroom, sitting room, child. But tomorrow, she must return to the city. She looks out across the land scattered with trees – yam, mango, plantain, breadfruit. Slowly darkness claims the countryside.

A blink of light. Then another. And another. Fireflies flit, zip, dash, dart, hover, transforming the night into a luminous landscape. A nocturnal light show. She watches this magical courtship of improvised dance, chance synchronicity, the language of light singing silent love songs.

And inside her there is a light – a new light. A shimmer, a quiet glimmer that will grow, shine brighter, find form. Her own silent love song. A parting gift from this house. 

'Ride to Moksha' by Vijayalakshmi Sridhar

The door closed behind our backs softly. “There are non-believers,” a woman whisper-reasoned, making the basement-gathering sound like a cult-meet. The room was lush with rose petals on the floor and kumkum dust in the air.

“Come, fly with me,” thirty years back, Vasu had coaxed Kamakshi and me, to pile on to the pillion of his dad-our uncle’s Bajaj Chetak. “Close your eyes; Nagi, sing Mokshamu,” he commanded. Our pattu pavadai up our knees, pressed like fresh gulab jamuns against each other, the possibility of a wedding between Vasu and one of us ripe. Mokshamu was chopped into pieces by the more exciting chorus-brr that we believed propelled us on the backs of the static scooter.

Years later Amma, Chithi and Athai mounted Vasu’s pillion to Badrinath, Kedarnath and Kashi, to land them right on the threshold of the temples. “In the blink of an eye,” they felt stunned by their nephew’s tantric gift. By then, he was entitled a Guru and was pulling Lingams out of his mouth and levitating live in front of Bhakts.

“Sing,” Amma mouthed, as Vasu sounded the hand bell. I missed Kamakshi- she was the one who hi regulated our classes, maintained our notebooks, and chosen Kritis for us to learn.

Closing my eyes, I skipped the prelude and launched into the pallavi of Mokshamu.Would he at least ask about Kamakshi?

Past the pallavi, when I felt like a hundred kilos and all the spectators’ gazes crawled down my
back, I opened my eyes, hoping to meet his’. But they were still downcast. He raised only his
right palm. As a hush fell, Amma joined hers, ready to receive his blessing. “Stop,” he said
curtly, stood up and stalked off, his feet squeaking over the faux-tiger skin floor cushion by the
loudest.

'Crash Landing' by Richard Hughes

“To our sixth month anniversary,” you said, raising your glass.

“How’s your Paloma?” I said, wishing I’d gone for that.

“So good! And your Negroni?”

“Tasty.” There were too many ice cubes for my liking, but I didn’t want to spoil the moment. “I think they’ve used burnt orange bitters.”

“Can I have a sip?”

“No! No, you can’t!” I grabbed the glass away before you could take it off me.

You grinned, and sat back. “You hate it when I dive in, don’t you?”

“I guess it has something to do with having eight siblings. Growing up, if you didn’t have sharp elbows you would starve.”

You didn’t laugh or collude with my recollection, and I appreciated that. Instead you took my hand, and held it tight, just as the waiter brought more olives.

“Isn’t this place gorgeous,” I said looking around at the low beams and the log fire. "I’d like a place like this one day. Not a second home, more like a dacha. You know, like they have in Eastern Europe, built out of wood. With an enamelled stove, and a small bit of land to grow veg on, and I’d have a bed with gingham sheets, proper sheets, and a patchwork quilt eiderdown, and at night, there would be just the sound of the stars.”

“Listen to you, up in the clouds.”

“Do you mind?” What I wanted to say is, and it will be for us. Just you and me.

“Nothing wrong with dreaming.”

“What about you?” I said. “What would you like one day?”

“I’m more of an in the moment kind of guy.”

“I know that,” I said.

You smiled and sat back again. “But right now? I was thinking, how about we try an open relationship?”

'Grounded escapism' by Winston Kinyua

First, there was the feeling of detachment, like his body was no longer his. Then, when he closed his eyes, he flew.

He could feel the breeze on his face as he glided above clouds too white to be true, and a sun that was as gentle as a kiss on his skin.

He wondered why she hadn’t showed up yet. As if brought on by his musings, she suddenly appeared, gliding next to him.

“I was beginning to wonder if you weren’t going show today,” he said.

They glided in silence, and he looked at her, wondering what was going through her head. She was the color of molten gold, and her ears lay flat on her head. Her snout was moist and her eyes were as bright as he remembered them to be.

Then, like a fading technicolor dream, the landscape began melting. The blue sky darkened, and the clouds melted away, revealing a naked nothingness that scared him. Already?

Then everything turned black.

He never liked this part, not because of the pounding headache or the unbearable nausea, but because his reality was too painful.

“Hey Usman, you’re done for the day,” she said, while she pulled the tubes from his arm.

He slowly opened his eyes, blinking at the stark brightness of the room and her uniform.

Across from him, another nurse was waking up Munira. She had the same look that he had on his face, he was sure. One of longing and pain.

Does she also see her dead dog? He wondered.

Chemotherapy isn’t something you expect to be doing at only 23 years. But it was the reality he lived in.

The corticosteroids he was injected with made his flying possible and only then, did he feel alive.

'The man in the purple shirt' by Cath Barton

I had seen him before, I was sure. In town, somewhere, more than once, but he was
always moving away from me. It hadn’t meant anything; it wasn’t as if I was looking for a
man. But I did like his purple shirt, and if he’d walked towards me I would have asked him–
Oh, for good sake, what am I talking about, of course I wouldn’t have asked him.

‘What wouldn’t you have asked me?’ The man in the purple shirt was hovering just
in front of me.

‘What do you mean? Did I speak? Who are you? And how are you doing that?’ I
was burbling, I knew. Going red too, no doubt.

‘Haven’t you ever seen anyone doing yogic flying before?’

I stared at him as he continued to hover there, the man in the very nice purple shirt.

Silk, it looked liked, now I could see it close up.

‘Well, haven’t you?’

He sounded annoyed.

‘Yes, no, well only on You Tube, and that was probably faked. I’m not really into that
stuff.’ I bent down and ran my hand under his feet, just to make sure that he wasn’t up to
tricks with some box that he’d made look invisible. My hand passed through the air; there
was no box, no anything holding him above the ground.

‘Now do you believe it?’

‘Okay, I believe that you’re hovering in the air. You must have some motorised
contraption I can’t see. Pretty neat, I’ll give you that. But what’s the point and why are you
harassing me?’

I got no answers from him and he flew off. I’ve never seen him since, but I’ve got my
own purple shirt now so I can fly too. Just don’t ask me how I do it.

Pirouette by Uju Obi

The jumper flew across the room, landing with both arms facing the door. Anything is a sign if you want it to be. She laughed, and put it on.

“Ok let’s go for a walk,” she said.

They crunched their way up the street.

He began singing, louder and louder. She giggled. It was 11am on a Monday morning. There was no one about.

Her feet slipped from beneath her. As with everyone else, he caught her.

They had spent most of their early dates out dancing. Before he had spent the decades since tap, tapping, typing away at the life his father had constructed. And his father before him.

“Be careful,” she said. As they walked past another puddle covered in ice. But he laughed and turned back. And jumped up high with all his might, to crack the puddle.

He slid of course, but this time he caught himself. Then he flung his arms up in the air and did a twirl.

'Mothman’s “About Me” on Bumble for Friends' by Suzanne Hicks

I know what people say about me. But honestly, I’m a nice guy. Everyone’s afraid when they see me flying through the air. But just last week I took to the sky to chase after a couple leaving a diner because I saw the woman’s wallet fall out of her purse when they got into their station wagon. And I know many people say that I have terrifying red eyes. It’s because I don’t sleep! Do you know how stressful it is when everyone thinks your existence means that tragedy will follow? It’s lonely being a cryptid. The only one of your kind. I’m just out here looking for connections like everyone else on this planet. So, if you’re brave enough to take a chance, send me a message. Let’s grab a beer sometime. Geographic location is no obstacle. I’m happy to come to you.

'Pieces of Sky' by Ali McGrane

She doesn’t bring a towel. It’s November, and she has no plans to swim. But she walks barefoot, shoes strung by their laces around her neck like tethering weights, the wet sand squeezing between her toes and sucking at her heels. She lets her feet settle, half-hidden creatures waiting for the tide. Everything sinks here at the edge of things. When she takes her next step, the sand seems reluctant to let go.

The small cloth bag over her arm is blown about by an off-shore breeze so the straps twirl, and she has to untwist them to add the next feather. It’s black and bent, probably from one of the ravens that stalk the beach each evening. She doesn’t mind that it’s bent. She collects feathers no-one would want. Feathers streaked with tar, feathers whose spines have been crushed, half-stripped feathers like old combs. Wing feathers, tail feathers and cloud-coloured down. Small flags poking from the litter of weed and human debris at the high tide mark. She wants them all.

Back home she shakes the day’s pickings into the sack in the corner of her room. The contents rustle in welcome. She plunges her hands deep inside, waits for the quills to scratch secret spells for flight onto her parchment skin.

Flights of Fancy by Jane Jackson

 The fairground bustled with men in suits and women in their finest petticoats. Lacy parasols protected the delicate.

Canine pets ran amok amidst the brightly coloured stalls and rides. A musical carousel twirled children, bouncing

them up and down as they tried to wave to their nannies, holding the reins tightly with one hand. Swings rocked

higher and higher. Ponies pulled carts full of paying passengers. Balls were tossed hard towards tantalising coconuts.

Fresh cakes, fruit, vegetables, chutneys and jams displayed for sale, home-made or home-grown.

The wind grew steadily stronger as the morning progressed. What began as a gentle caressing breeze gradually

turned into tugging gusts. Clouds, which had lingered watching the entertainment, now passed swiftly overhead

without a glance. skirts shook, hair was ruffled, top hats were unseated to roll and bowl away through the crowds.

Ropes strained against tent poles, canvases lifted, balloons broke free to drift in the air.

As the wind became gale force, billowing tents finally pinged loose, flapping against currents carrying them high

above the field. Fully inflated petticoats lifted startled ladies from the ground, men clutching at ankles as if flying

kites, but in vain. As the distressed damsels floated upwards, their screams and tears were frightful to hear.

What a sight to behold! The wind continued unabated but some of the ferocity now died down. The floating ladies

calmed to the sight of blue and white all around, impossible to look down, nothing but patterned skirt material in

view. Laughing and giggling tinkled down to the astonished men on the ground.

'Turbulence' by Anna Peter

Dinah didn’t have a good feeling about the trip.

Her father had needed help on his farm. David had agreed to come, but said he wouldn’t help. Last time, during the harvest season, David had discovered college friends and disappeared – until it was time to return to Mumbai.

Dinah glanced at her husband. He was snoring. She wanted to pinch him into wakefulness. Talking to him, or screaming out her frustration, had never worked. It all came back to how flawed she was.

The blue sky and cotton clouds outside resembled home. She felt at peace in the fields, even while raking out manure or sitting by the river. The last few years her thoughts were unhappy, of David, of her in-laws. They complained non-stop – about her cooking, her looks, how their relatives found her aloof. In time, she understood she was only to be seen and not heard.

The lights went out, and the plane shuddered. Bile rose into her throat and people screamed. One person flew out of his seat, hit the baggage bin and was grabbed by nearby passengers, who hurriedly fastened his seatbelt. Her eyes flew to David. His glasses were askew, his eyes bulged, and his hands gripped the armrests. He was screaming.

In a few minutes – was it seconds – the captain announced the seatbelt sign would stay on and more turbulence was expected. Dinah looked at David… and a chuckle escaped. David was still gripping the armrests, his body stiff. Dinah looked away. Maybe David disappearing wouldn’t be a bad thing. She would be with people who loved her, be herself, and maybe lie in the river naked. She had given it up once she married. She looked at David again, and guffawed.

NFFD 2024 Prompt #6: Walking on Air

Prompt #6: Walking on Air
AIR prompt B

Welcome to The Write-In!  This year, we're celebrating the 2024 National Flash Fiction Day Anthology theme of The Classical Elements - Air, Earth, Water and Fire. Throughout National Flash Fiction Day, we'll be posting one time-related prompt on the hour every hour from 00:00 until midnight (BST), for a total of 25 prompts in all.  You have until midnight on Sunday (BST) to submit your responses for possible publication here at the Write-In.  We'll start posting responses on Sunday, 16 June 2024....

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 Write a flash about flying. Who or what is flying is up to you....

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If you’re submitting this to us, make sure to note that this is a response to Prompt 6: Walking on Air.

You can submit responses until 23:59 BST on Sunday, 16 June 2024 for a chance to be published here at The Write-In.

You can claim the badge for this prompt by visiting the badgifier here (hosted by the NFFD website).

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Thank you to Audrey Niven at The Propelling Pencil for this prompt. 

Photo by Rakicevic Nenad (detail)