Dreams of Eire

[UnsungRequiem]

Posting it here destroys the format, but here goes --




The rush of wind passes beneath me; sky, blue and unmarred by cotton
clouds, is what I swim through. I beat my wings struggling for the
heavens. I feel the air currents tug at my feathers, pulling and
pushing me to higher grounds. The world is far below me; mountains are
made molehills, and trees dwarfed by distance. Molehills turn to
valley and valley to forest; one after another the elms and oaks
retreat from my vision. I spread my tail feathers and let my wings out
to their fullest. A powerful gust and I am drawn upon the golden sun,
who kisses me with her pale lips.

Forest gives way to ocean, and soon and I am encompassed by blue. The
distinction between sea and sky is forgotten, and I lose touch with
the pull of the world. I fly simply free, burdened not by thought nor
gravity. The waves have long since vanished, their constant war with
the shore forgotten in the midst of the endless sea. The winds fall
silent, and I glide through the mirrored nothingness. Time passes
covertly, and I fly ceaselessly until the horizon crashes back into my
existence. Upon this re-born horizon glitters a speck that grows into
something green and perfect. It’s a jewel, a gem the size of a
continent.

Black wings; they are my wings. Black beak; this is my beak. I am the
Raven. Folklore tells of my creation of the world, my devouring of
souls, my feathers being the link to eternity. All these and more, do
they whisper of me. Yet I am no autumn deity, losing my grip with the
world and her people. I am the Raven.

As I draw near the emerald cliffs, they fracture, the world shattering
and breaking beneath the weight of reality.


And I awaken.


I am still here.

Gray walls, black bars; no window to see if that clarion blue still
rests in the sky, or if its face has been marred by streaking clouds
the color of my cell block.

I wake and find I am still imprisoned. The freedom I dreamt of is
still a dream. Pulling the rough sheets away from my body, I turn and
sit upon the bed. To my right is a toilet; my left is a solid steel
door with a small Plexiglas and wire window. My only view from this
room is the opposite wall of the cellblock.

Before me is a small desk; it has everything worth caring about on it.
Books rest beside nudie magazines beneath the unforgiving halogen
light that blinks into existence at the beginning of each day. I hear
the harsh voices of the guards echo through the length of the block I
am in.

Groggily I stand, the dream still vivid as blood in my mind. To the
desk I slink, where my typewriter rests. On a steno pad beside the
machine I see a note that I wrote yesterday.

“Same dream, I was flying, I was free…”

How many times has that dream come to haunt me in the past five years
since my conviction? The days have marched slowly forward, each one a
lame mule dragging the burden, which broke its back. I have come to a
familiar routine.


Wake.

Pen my dreams to paper.

Dress.

Shuffle out to eat breakfast.

Read. (I only have four books: Poetry by Rumi, a book on Buddhism, a
thesaurus, and a dictionary.)

Write.

Shuffle out to eat lunch.

Practice Taiqiquan in the courtyard.

Return to my cell.

Wait for dark.

Write.

Sleep.

Dream of Freedom.


Each day falls into this blissful routine. I had nearly memorized my
poetry and Buddhist teachings; the thesaurus and the dictionary I used
for my writings. It is futile to count days, and better that today be
washed away in the sickly gray that surrounds me. Two springs ago, I
stopped counting months. When your sentence is twenty years to life,
you begin focusing on larger chunks of time. I’d rather spend eighty
seasons in prison than two hundred and forty months; just seems
shorter. The spring before that I was the only con that didn’t riot
during a black out. The guards were so pleased by my broken will that
they let me have an old-fashioned typewriter, the kind that click-
clacks the words onto the paper and then chimes when you reach the end
of the line, except mine doesn’t chime anymore.

While contemplating a return to slumber, my door shivers and I can
hear the buzz and creak of electronics within. The small clock I’d
smuggled in points out firmly that it is only seven thirty in the
morning. Breakfast isn’t for another half hour, and yet, my door is
grinding open.

“Get up, Mac, you’ve got company.”

Mac; I hate that name with a fervor. The guards and the cons call me
by it, because they don’t like my full name, Mac Anam O’Ridley, At
least I’m not Anam.

The guard steps out of the doorway after making sure I am properly
clothed to reveal…

A woman.

She’s short, five foot-two or so, staring up with the intensity of a
predator. She takes a moment to scrutinize me, and then gives a nod.

“You’ve been a model prisoner …”

Pause. She checks the clipboard in her diamond-tight grip with her
perfectly manicured nails. Second pause, reread the name and continue.

“Mac Anam.”

“Mac is fine.”

“Mac it is.”

She seems fussed that I spoke, as though it broke some predetermined
script. It takes her a few heartbeats to once more find her composure.

“I’m here representing Mr. Baxtor.”

Bastard weaseled me out of a good amount of money, and the jury found
his defense as believable as that hideous toupee he had taken to
wearing. I grunt my recognition of the name and cross my arms, going
on the defensive.

“He died, last month actually.”

She gives pause, expecting some condolences to be doled out.

I don’t.

“When he died, we found a confession of sorts in his will. A parole
board reviewed your case, and found you were convicted in error.”

Her words hit me hard, and although I want to speak, my tongue has
fainted for me and left me speechless. Instead of saying anything, I
blink.

“It turns out,” she speaks now with more confidence, her script having
its desired effect, “that Mr. Baxtor was paid a small fortune to throw
a few cases. As he wrote, your wife gave him nearly a quarter of a
million dollars in cash to get you convicted.”

Delilah. I haven’t thought of her in ages, not since…

“With that being said, I will let you go.”

She is gone before I can respond, and I am not dreaming.



Freedom.




Two months, three days later.

Wings. I can feel the wind beneath me again; I can feel the glory of
flight. I am held by no bounds, the earth holds me not but the sky
does not lose me. Instead I tease them both with my flight, bobbing
and rising, dropping and twisting. I don’t know where I am going, but
I have a sense of urgency about it. I know I have to get there and I
have to get there soon. I spread my beak to caw, but instead I feel
the air torn from them. I begin to plummet towards the water beneath
me.

Out of the corner of my eye I see it, where I was headed. Green,
Rocky, Home. It is calling to me, a siren’s song. A lulling, seductive
purr of hereditary memory. Yet, before I reach her shores I crash into
the ocean and jolt awake.

First night in a new place is always scary. I remember my first night
in prison… Well, that’s behind me now. Looking around the apartment I
find it hard to remember where anything is, a little loft in San Fran.
Expensive as hell, but the money from my lawsuit against the Law Firm
that put me in jail wrongfully is paying it. I still have a hard time
believing it all.



Memory happens in flashes. Lightning that crackles and stays, it
doesn’t play like a movie instead it all seems to blur together into
the over-all experience. Delilah, a nice fitting name for a tempting
Italian woman that seemed to gut any of the men she came across. Fiery
temper and insatiable in bed, it was a good mix. At the time I was a
general contractor it paid well, but had hellish hours. She was a
flight attendant and though she was gone sometimes the pay was great
and when she came home she was a wildcat.

Specifics seem to grow foggy in memory, but those days that matter are
crystal clear; photographs that don’t fade with age. September. I
remember it was September; I was working on a coffee house that was
being built. Damn it all if Delilah doesn‘t call up and ask me to come
home early. I couldn‘t figure it, but being the good whipped man I
was, I bowed out and went home.

We rented a nice little house in Hercules, a suburb outside of San
Francisco. Nice place doesn’t live up to the name though. I wander in
the front door, kick off my boots and wander into the living room.


First clue your lady is screwing another guy. A shirt you’ve never
seen is on the couch.

Second clue, said guy is in shirt, on top of your lady. Both of which
are locked at the hip.


So, at this point it gets real fuzzy. Like sleep deprivation and
alcohol poisoning. I remember feeling sick, but its more distant. Like
I’m watching someone get sick. That’s beside the point; the biggest
thing I remember is where my sword is. Right above the T.V., across
from the Couch. I love the Renn Faires, I went to them all the time.
Got my own costume and what not. It’s a nice sword, specially made for
me. Carbon steel blade, double edged like an old Crusaders sword. The
hilt is longer; I’m a big fella with big hands. The pommel is an oval
shape, so it doesn’t dig into my wrist. Quillions are spring steel and
turned up like a smiley face. Unless that sword is plunged down into
someone’s side then it gets real unhappy.

I woke up in the hospital, stinking of Whiskey and vomit. Nurse tells
me I went drinking afterwards, still covered in blood. Folks in the
pub called the cops on me and by the time they got there I was
unconscious in a pool of my own vomit. Guess not all the Irish can
hold their liqueur.


Waking up right now, I still figured Delilah would be in the bed next
to me. But she’s not, she couldn’t be. Now she’s the one in jail. That
pretty little lawyer lass told me her motive. The bloke that I
skewered was pretty well off. He willed her a bunch of cash and she
wouldn’t see a dime of it until she married him or killed him. Seeing
as she was married already, that limited her options. Mr. Baxtor
seemed to be a greedy man; he took half my savings and then a good
portion of the money left to her.


“Well Delilah, look who’s laughing now.” I said.

But the tears I shed were not from laughter.



It’s hard coming out of prison and trying to lead a normal life.
Without the bars, without the routine and the guards it can be kind of
scary. At least you know that you’re surrounded by criminals and who
to avoid in prison. On the streets, on a bus, in a market. The
criminals blend seamlessly in with their marks. I find myself getting
paranoid in crowds. Occasionally I cast a glance over my shoulder and
feel as though I’m being followed.

Weeks pass and I find I’m still out of a job. Being without employment
means having a lot of spare time. With that time I focus on what I did
in the joint. Writing.

Rumi now holds a much larger section of my bookshelf; the Buddhists
teachings are still reclining next to the sensual Persian poet.
Buddhism strikes a fancy with me, helps uncluttered my mind so that I
can start remembering who I am. Religion seems kind of pointless to
me, how can I know who or what to worship when I’m not even sure about
who I am.


More time passes, still in the habit of counting seasons I’m not sure
exactly how long but I do know that spring is coming. Things always
seem to happen in spring. I bought a computer and have found myself
writing more often. Poetry mainly, but occasionally I try my hand at a
story. It always comes out bad though. I can’t seem to make a happy
ending to a story. I wonder what that means.



Sleep.

Dream…

Not a dream.

The Dream.



I crack my eyes open, as if I’ve been asleep for days. But, my eyes
aren’t mine; they are the me that flies. The me that flies home. Again
I find my wings being lifted and this time I see the continent
clearly. The shores defined by bursts of white water exploding against
the cliff-side. I can smell it, the brine, the ocean and also the
land. Land has a smell too. The earth of it, the stone, and even from
this distance I can scent the grass that plays gently in the winds
which lead me home.

This time, I hear a voice. It is a distant, feminine voice that
beguiles me. The kind of voice that causes a man to flush with the
beauty of it. Were I a man, I would’ve blushed. But, I am not. I am a
Raven flying home. Where is this home?

That voice answers the question I cannot ask with my hardened beak.


“Eire…”


And I awake.

And I am still here.


On the couch, the bed is too soft. Assessing my surroundings I realize
its mid-day and I have a job appointment about ten minutes ago. The
couch is left vacant as I burst into motion. A shirt first, thrown on
and buttoned haphazardly while I brush my teeth and attempt to wrestle
the pants onto my legs. I’m out the door before I have my boots on and
find myself rushing towards the bus stop.

I catch the BART and continue my preparations there. Hair combed with
thick fingers and shoes tied while fumbling with a tie. None of the
commuters seem displaced by my actions, they are wrapped up in their
own world. An older woman cracks a smile that is full of holes.

With a nod to the toothless woman I leap to my feet and slip out of
the middle of the bus. The boots I wear are my old work boots, shined
as best as they can be. The day seems off, something about the air
seems stale. I hear the sounds of the city, the bustle of cars behind
me. Voices prattling on about whatever voices prattle about. There I
stand, in front of the small contractors office. I stand there and I
realize I don’t want the job. I see the man I talked to inside
hurriedly scribbling notes down and looking over floor plans. As I see
him, I see what I used to be. I see what I don’t want to become and I
walk away.


I walk, walking towards my apartment once more. Through the streets
which always seem to have at least one other person on them. The day
drags on and soon the day begins to lay its head down into afternoon.
The light changes and yet still, I feel that awkward tension that
stands between me and the city. Like a lover who calls out the wrong
name in bed, I feel wronged by this place. The more time passes, the
more the feeling tinges the back of my mouth.

“Eire! That’s where we should go.” A voice comes from somewhere. A
woman’s voice.

Eire, I think about it while I put a few steps between the voice and
I, before I realize. The Dream. I turn on a heel and immediately move
back towards the source of the word. A beautiful woman, hair having
been dyed to an unnatural black that made her vivid green eyes stand
out as gems against the alluring paleness of her face. I find I am for
a moment caught off-guard. She stands with another woman, a few
decades older than she who laughs at her enthusiasm.

“Liz, that’s where our family is from. Ireland.”

The woman named Liz, having been given a name in my mind now wrinkled
her nose. “Mom, Its Eire. Ireland was a name given to them by the
English.” Those words scoffed with hints of disgust. She gave sigh and
pushed open the door she stood before and pulled her mother in after
her as though she were dragging a reluctant child. I turned to stare
at the window they had just gazed at. In bold letters it said.


EIRE! Travel to the Emerald Isle!

Enter the old lands.

Inquire Within for great Spring Deals!


Always being easy to suggestion I began to step in, but again I felt
that tinge of paranoia touch upon my mind. It wasn’t just paranoia,
but eyes. I could feel them upon me, watching my every move. They
could’ve been there the whole time. I unfocused my vision from the
poster to the glass that it was taped to. I faked reading the details
at the bottom of the poster and watched everything behind me. Cars
passed, people moved on by. Nothing was stationary save for the parked
cars. I took my time in watching each reflection until I saw him. Not
him, but it. The glitter of binoculars from behind a brown cars
passenger side window. It was a block down watching my every move.
Taking a step to the left, I tested my hypothesis. The glint moved
with me.

Prison makes you take notice of such things, getting eyed by the burly
southerner usually meant having to go without showering for a few days
until he found a new Sally to play house with. I turned away from the
travel agency I stood in front of and moved away. I looked back only
once and straight into the window. For a moment Liz and I locked eyes
and there was something whispered between us. How I longed to go into
that travel agency and chat her up, but I knew delay could spell
trouble and left her staring at the window wondering.

I walked a few blocks before I heard a car start up, the streets were
by no means silent but I was listening for it. I turned a few blocks
that I didn’t need to and found that brown sedan moved with me. I
quickly cut through and alley and moved towards my apartment complex.
I hoped they had spotted me, but not known where I lived.

Breaking into a hard run I made my way through the city I had called
home most of my life, taking a few of the back-ways one learns as a
youth. I moved through the last alley, breathing a sigh of relief.

That breath was taken from my lungs, as I was jack-knifed into a wall.


The world went black as a raven’s wing.


I was flying again; except I didn’t have wings this time and I
couldn’t see anything. No, I wasn’t flying, I was falling and I hit
the ground hard. Except this wasn’t ground it was metal and opening my
eyes I only got to see the light for a fraction of a second before it
was extinguished by a cars trunk closing on me. I would put money that
it was a Brown Sedan.

First I heard rustling, there was no music coming from the cabin of
the car. I realized the engine wasn’t on, and that meant I was still
close to home. I didn’t take time to pause, I turned in the trunk and
placed my hands back against the trunk lid. Curling tight into a ball
I delivered a hard kick to the back seat that gave beneath my heels. A
cacophony of swearing came from the driver's seat, I spun onto my
knees and pushed myself forward through the small opening with a hand
thrown out.

A loud crack echoed through the car of a gunshot, and the first bullet
went high piercing the back window. I grabbed his arm and pulled it
down between the passenger seat and the driver’s seat. Using his arm
as a handhold I pulled the rest of my body through the back seat and
grabbed at his head. I was stronger than he was and after a few
seconds of struggle had him pinned to the seat.

“Who are you!?” I screamed in his ear.

“Go to hell!” Was his witty reply, and to my chagrin his other hand
had an even sharper retort. A knife. It shot up and dug into my left
shoulder, I howled in pain and released his head, but in my pain I
twisted and broke his arm. We both recoiled from the sudden bursts of
pain when I realized he had dropped his gun. He was contorted in agony
over his broken limb while I grabbed at the gun and quickly had it
within my right hand.

Lifting the gun, I placed the muzzle to the back of the seat about
heart and lung level saying. “Don’t move a muscle or I’-”

Unfortunately for him, his knife tried to reply before I had a chance
to finish, so the chirp of the bullet tearing through his chest ended
the conversation. He grunted and hit the steering wheel heavily,
apparently the horn was broken because the car was eerily quiet. I sat
down, trembling and holding my shoulder as I looked at the body in the
front seat. It was unreal, two men dead. I was a murderer twice over.
I panicked and shoved the gun in my pocket and grabbed everything in
the car I could. Owners Manual, pack of gum, his knife, his wallet and
any other item that I ran across while frantically searching the
vehicle into a briefcase that had been set behind the drivers seat. I
fumbled with the door and pushed out. The alley was quiet, but the
first gunshot must’ve alerted someone to trouble. Without thought I
ran from between the buildings straight into my apartment complex and
into my home.


I rushed into the apartment and threw the briefcase onto the kitchen
counter. I’d cut myself up pretty good in the past and found that
super-glue and a band-aid can put together most any cut. I retrieved
those two items from a drawer in the kitchen and got to work. The gash
across my left shoulder was messy, but I fixed it up as best I could.
The gun was laid upon the kitchen counter beside the briefcase.
Shaking violently I went to open the briefcase. The lid flew open and
sent a few papers falling from the top and slowly I began to sort
through the man's items. His wallet had forty-three dollars in it, two
credit cards, a business card from a tattoo shop and a sandwich joints
value card. No ID. I swore violently, continuing to go through the
case.

Throwing useless papers aside, along with some Mercenary magazine I
came to a neatly prepared Manila folder. With slow fingers I opened it
and dumped its contents onto my counter.

Staring up at me was my picture, not just one but dozens. Mingled in
with these pictures was a bank prepared stack of hundreds. I sorted
through the pictures, they were all recent. No notes, nothing. If he
was a PI than he wouldn’t have tried to kidnap me and PI’s weren’t
allowed to carry guns on the job. I fumed and continued to sort
through the items until I came across a napkin with a phone number
scrawled across it, a number and a name.


Delilah

630-555-9203


I took a slow breath and rubbed my eyes to stare at it again. A hit
man? Could she want me dead? I hadn’t tried to contact her since I got
out. I got out. She was going in.

“Damn it...”

I had no other words, leaving the items spread across my counter I
grabbed the stack of hundred dollar bills and shoved it in my pocket.
Going into the bedroom I stripped down my clothing and threw on some
comfortable traveling clothes. I packed a backpack with anything that
was dear to me. My Rumi Poetry found its way into my bag as well as a
Buddhist book called “Zen Mind, Beginners Mind.” alongside some
clothing and an extra pair of running shoes.

It took me little time to undo a lighting fixture in the kitchen and
route the wires incorrectly. With a few subtle changes and some
chemical’s injected into the light I set the wires a few inches apart
and put a folded piece of paper between them. Immediately the paper
began to fold as the wires naturally drew themselves together.

I dropped off the footstool and kicked it across the room. Within a
few seconds I was out of the apartment and down the stairs. As I
turned the corner I could’ve sworn I heard a pop, but the fire
wouldn’t spread for a little bit and I knew they could get out in
time. It was time to leave, to go home.



“Well Mr. …O’Ridley... We you are making plans very quickly!” The
hyper blonde behind the Airport counter yipped at me.

“Yes, I had a death in the family.”

My reply was bland, but she wasn’t listening. She looked up at me and
gave me an all-together fake frown, saying something about
condolences. Before she gave another vapid smile and said.

“Well, unfortunately all of our flights have been canceled due to a
terrorist threat! We can book a flight for next week!”

I stared at her in disbelief and simply nodded.

“Fine. Do it.”

Again she began pecking at the color coded keys and chirped.

“That’ll be One thousand Six hundred, Fifty three dollars and twenty
two cents!”

I handed her my bankcard and let her swipe it through, while I rubbed
my eyes tiredly.

“Where’s the shuttles to the hotels?”

She was silent as she waited for the card to approve, as the beep of
acceptance issued from the tiny black machine she handed my card back
and smiled. “Just follow the signs.”

Her finger pointed above my head to a blue sign that herded the
traveling sheep to their different locales. I took the ticket from her
and nodded, stepping out of line for the next disgruntled person to
take my place.

The tile floors clicked beneath my work boots and my feet screamed in
pain. Boots were not meant for running in, especially not steel-toed
and I was feeling the effects. I followed the markers towards the
shuttles and took a bus that smelled of faux pine and sweat to a
hotel. The ride was bouncing and the man who drove it tried to
chitchat with me. But, when he found I was silent he too became quiet.
With a nod I tipped him with a hundred and left towards the welcoming
glass doors of the hotel.


Flying…

Real flying, my wings spreading wide beneath my weight and I see
forever. Blue and Green are all I see. The green of lush grasses and
the blue of sky and ocean still around me. I am the Raven once more
and I am almost on my home territory. I am almost home. Again the
winds pick up and I feel as though the world has finally aligned. The
feeling of being displaced is gone and now all I feel is peace.


But something is wrong, I feel my left wing give under me and I begin
to spiral down towards the ocean only a few precious leagues from
home. I open my mouth and scream but I feel the air pulled from them
and…


Beeping.

I’m awake.

And I’m still here.


The Alarm clock screams at me to wake up. The week is up; I’ve spent
it completely in this room. The room is completely untouched, I’ve
done nothing but sleep, eat, watch T.V. and read. It was a familiar
feeling, as though I was in prison again. Except this Prison had a
Television.

I grab my bag and stare outside, it’s still before dawn but the light
is just beginning to break the sky apart and the world is gray. That
drab grayness that only comes a few moments before the sun breaks free
from the shackles of night and the day is born once more. I pick up my
passport off the desk that faces the window and stare at it. Not a
mark on it, I’ve never been anywhere outside the country. This will be
a new start.

I’m off, down the elevator and to the lobby. I pay in cash and I am
gone from there without trace, a ghost. The lobby calls a Taxi for me,
but I don’t stay inside. I wait outside, in the chill of the morning.
The bay is a bit off, but I can still see the fog rolling atop it as
caressing fingers. I wait and finally the taxi pulls up. I see a
statue of the Buddha on the dashboard of the Taxi and grin slightly. I
dropped into the back seat and we are off wordlessly. The driver looks
in the rear-view and says.

“You care for any particular music?”

I expected an accent, I don’t know why, probably racist stereotypes.
But, he didn’t have one. I shook my head and he dropped in some
pleasant flute music. We tore across the streets and he drove with
purpose towards the airport. The car’s all flooded together on the
expressway and moved as one towards their separate destinations. It
was a quiet, wordless drive and finally I was at the terminal. I
turned to get out, stopped and pulled what remained of my cash, a few
hundred dollars and tossed it in his window.

“Keep the change.”

I disappeared into the terminal before he could count the money and
somewhere inside I hoped he didn’t have some crippling addiction I was
feeding.

I moved past the baggage check and up the escalator towards the
security checkpoint. Pushing into line I stood and slowly moved
forward. We were all Pavlov’s Dogs. Each time one of the Counter
attendants called “Next” we all lifted our bags, took a feeble few
steps forward and set them down. Through the line this went, a dozen
or more times before I stood at the head and stared expectantly at the
employee’s that were doing the security searches. Walking forward, I
dropped my bag onto the x-ray machine and waited for the blandly
dressed woman to call me through the metal detector. As she guided me
forward, I quickly took my watch off and threw it in a basket with an
apologetic smile.

I walked through the machine and miraculously didn’t get the loud beep
that everyone before had. She nodded me past and I followed the length
of the conveyor belt to the end where it was spewing forth random
carry on luggage. I waited beside a tall man who had an air of
importance about him. He looked at me with a courteous smile before he
lifted his black laptop case and disappeared towards the gates. As he
left I saw my bag come forth and happily lifted it to my shoulder. A
good omen, I wasn’t running late.

In my running shoes, I do just that. Run, up the length of the food-
court, past the stores pushing books and travel items and towards my
destination. Over the loud speaker I hear a crackling woman’s voice
rattling off destinations and gates. I expect men to burst out of any
corner, every nook and cranny could hold death for me. I try not to
think about what had happened, the man I had killed and the apartment
building I burned down. But, we all have our crosses to bear, right?

I find my gate and slouch into one of the uncomfortable plastic
chairs. I’m the only one there and for once I feel a kind of
reassurance. It’s all behind me, and finally I get to go to Ireland…
No Eire, just like Liz said. Digging through my bag I pull out the Zen
book and begin to lose myself into Shunryu Suzuki’s talks.


A few hours pass, I got really good at passing time in prison and find
little waits like this one to be nothing of inconvenience. Others have
piled in and a few self-important individuals stand in line already. I
stand now and slip the book back into the recesses of my bag and pull
out my passport. Again I open it and stare at the picture of me who
stares back. I shiver and try to discard the feeling of discomfort
that has returned once more.

“I’ll be glad to get out of here.” I mutter to myself, a few people
around me look up but say nothing.

Finally the voice cracks over the inter-com and I see the mouth
speaking it is behind my Gate Counter. It tells me to get ready and
begins calling seat rows. I move up towards the counter and show my
ticket. The woman smiles vacantly and says.

“For only a hundred more dollars you can upgrade to first class! We
had some cancellations and are offering a special deal!”

Shrugging I pull out my bankcard again and hand it over. Why the hell
not, I might as well get a good seat for this grudgingly long flight.

“Sure…”

“Alright Mr. … O’Riddle-ee” She butchers my name. “Please move towards
the gate entrance and enjoy your flight!”

I move towards the gate intending to do just that, when I hear the man
taking tickets saying.

“Please take your seats on the plane, unfortunately there’s been a
mechanical error found so we’re going to have to be fixing that. The
plane will be delayed…”

Great. The guy must’ve had an addiction, because that money didn’t buy
an ounce of Karma.


I am flying, except this time I can’t feel the wind tearing across my
wings. I can’t see the ocean beneath or the sky above. Instead I see
an awful colored carpet and a group of three buttons with a little
radial light that glares down at me.

The pilot has told me we’ve been over the ocean for the past 7 hours
and soon we’ll be able to see Ireland. Luckily dawn just came about
half an hour ago, we were waylaid at the terminal with some sort of
engine problem for three and a half hours. I feel my stomach growl
with hunger and my body scream in protest at remaining seated for so
long. I stare out the window and can see the hint of that blue which
my dreams had held and although I am so close to home, I still feel
the sickly unease disturbing my stomach.

I’ve never been in first class, I’ve never really flown either so this
is a treat. Wide seats, lots of legroom but still my body was never
meant to be still for so long. Though I had a heavy-set man who liked
to talk beside me, the flight hadn‘t been half bad. The flight
attendants voice echoes from behind me in the economy cabin where I
was supposed to sit.

“O’Ridley? Mr. O’Ridley?”

I turn in curiosity and call back, pushing the curtain aside. “Yes?”

She’s a waif, all blonde hair and tanning salon skin. She gives a
painfully forced smile and hands me a folded piece of paper.

“A friend of mine wanted me to give you this, we used to fly
together.”

She said as she sauntered back towards the front of the plane. I was
perplexed and with a light flick of my wrist I pulled open the note
with a raised brow. The man beside e wasn’t disturbed by the
stewardesses voice didn’t disturb him, I was thankful.

The note unfolded and I recognized the handwriting.


“Mac


You’ve always been such a pain in the ass Mac, I loved that survivor
nature in you. It’s why I knew you could survive in prison. Who
would’ve guessed old Baxtor would have had such a conscience on him?
Not me, that’s for sure.


You’d be amazed what a few grand can buy from a cop.

You’d be even more amazed at what ten grand can get an Airline
Mechanic can do.

Ten grand and a few nights of sex.


I love you Mac, you’ve always been good to me. So do me a favor?

Please don’t find a way out of this one. Remember, you did Will me all
your assets, I bet you haven’t even gotten a divorce yet have you Mac?


Your lover,

Delly”


I paused and looked around the plane, she wouldn’t be stupid enough to
have someone shoot me on a plane. I knew her better than that, that’s
when I heard the explosion. The roar of the wind and screaming metal
tore at my eardrums. I turned to see the left wing had erupted into
flames and torn a sizeable whole in the hull, which was growing
exponentially.

The G-force ripped me from my seat and threw me backwards towards the
gaping hole, most of the passengers in economy were either dead or
being sucked out as well as first classers.

(Decompression and the ensuing free fall tore me from my seat, belt
and all. Crashing into the ceiling I joined the mass of debris and
people in being ejected from the remains of the plane.)

This is a nightmare, it couldn’t be real, I couldn’t be living this…



I am flying.


Beneath me is the blue of the ocean and above me the endless stretch
of sky. I feel the wind rush through my hair, across my fingertips. I
have no wings, nor feathers. I open my eyes against the sting of the
wind and stare forward. The plane is on fire and I am falling from
heaven. Yet I do not fear, I don’t feel anything but the wind and the
sun touching upon my face. I can smell the sea and see her, she’s
right there in front of me.


Eire…


And I don’t wake up.

And I am free.

[Sch...@gmail.com]

This is really really well written. I enjoyed it a lot!!

[The Last Bard]

I'm glad. It is one of my favorites of my short stories. A sort of
surrealism was carried through it that I felt at the time of its
conception. It all started with the sound of ravens wings, and I
looked up (I was on my porch in the middle of the woods) and saw it
pass over me, and the first scene blossomed in my head. It was really
an amazing moment for me.

Schenn, I started reading your chapter; I like it! Some editing stuff
here and there, but I want to finish it before I critique (If that is
what you want, I can just read it as a reader and enjoy it though. :D)

Peace out.

--
The phoenix is the only thing to rise and never descend, and while
everything changes. Nothing is truly lost.

[Schenn]

that is exactly what i want!! :-)

--
Pahediemiti
sa Yinepu-Wepwawet her Amun-Ra,
mery Sokar-Wesir, Hethert-Sekhmet her Ra-Heruakhety

[The Last Bard]

Sounds good to me! I'll spend some time reading what has been posted
(Wow! Already 13 people last I saw! Woot!)

Everyone throw in your stories, or just talk about writing.

Question to everyone --

Do you guys have a writing schedule? I found this was immensely
helpful in getting my novel done. (I'll post a few chapters tomorrow
sometime.) and I keep it going. Three times a week I devote at least 2
hours to writing... Anyone else adopt this habit?

[Wraygun]

Well written, and a pleasure to read! The lines I liked the most were
about the shirt on the couch. The line I liked the least was "I

walked a few blocks before I heard a car start up, the streets were by

no means silent but I was listening for it.". I think it's just a
punctuation error - trade the existing comma for a semi-colon, and add
a comma before the "but". For some reason I stalled on it for a long
moment.

I was worried the story might end blandly, but was pleasantly
surprised!

> unconscious in a pool of my own vomit. Guess not all the Irish can ...
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[The Last Bard]

I agree. There is something off about that, maybe start the sentence by saying "The streets were bustling, but I was keenly focused, waiting for the car to start" something along those lines.

The shirt on the couch comes from first hand experience, :D I wrote it exactly as I processed it when I caught my ex with another guy, so I thought there was some sort of emotional power there that could be drawn upon.

[Wraygun]

<grin> The best lines often do come from experience, oddly enough....

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