A short story, crafted in the form of a prose haiku, which buoyantly expresses the surreal human experience of soaring through life…
by: Kenneth D. Reimer
He is born on the first day of spring. (He is born as we are born.) When the song of morning murmurs through the blinds of his bedroom window, he unfolds his wings — still moist with the dew of creation — and stretches them wide to catch the first warming rays of the sun. (He is born as the sun is born.) Upon this gossamer, the dawn strums its melody of light, and his silken prism colors the earth.
A moment to dry them, flutter them, while he contemplates flight.
The sheets billow from the bed, and he knows that the chrysalis which holds him has grown unstable in its openness. He clutches at the memory of its security, poised between what was and what is, but the music compels him. He must rise from his bed, must drop into free-fall where the pitch of his descent will trace a new staff and the flutter of his wings will punctuate it with fresh notes. His pulse quickens.
He takes flight.
The Earth drags at him, but the music gathers beneath his wings, and he is born into the light. It sears his myriad eyes, but desire supersedes pain. He struggles skyward, gaining height until he becomes one with the symphonic rustle of a thousand other creatures of flight. Illumination gleams on their upturned faces, and the light through their wings is water. For all the press of humanity, the sky above is clear, and the horizon stretches toward eternity.
…until he sees her.
In that moment of crisis when her image occults the infinite, his soul grows blind to that which first drew him skyward. He turns toward her form. A passionate pursuit and embrace — wings clash then beat in harmony. They become one in a misapprehension of immortality. In unwitting desperation, they will sing of their love. They will find careers, will marry, have children, and, in time, grow indifferent to one another.
(There is a kireji.)
The spoon swept back and forth through the thick coffee. Like a pendulum, it touched first one side then the other, clinking faintly. It was a sound without echo — end-stopped poetry. Staring blankly, he counted off the seconds of the day. It was midmorning. Wings held rigid, he rode an uncertain, unceremonious current — passing time, hovering in the confluence of invisible forces. Work held no interest and the numbered moments slipped away.
At his desk he had scribed a circuitous flight among branches and leaves, dodging shadows, and the absurd suspicion arose that he was being emptied with every line he wrote. The knife tip of his pen tore through the fibers of the paper, wounding it, but the blood was his own, pouring unchecked while he piece by piece documented his single day upon the earth. As an insect is pinned to a display, he fixed the history that marked him in time.
He heard a voice, looked up to see a colleague spin past his cluttered desk — a crosscurrent had pulled her in his direction — but she’d compensated eloquently. Through the somnolent haze, his awareness roused, and he momentarily studied how her body moved as she swooped in flight, muscles straining beneath the fabric of her dress. The image was evocative, and something stirred within him. A memory, perhaps, or a longing. A thread of melody? He wondered where his wife was, grasped at a recollection of flying in the violent sky — of a transcendent passion and bliss — but it was forgotten, misplaced, seconded into oblivion by each thoughtless clicking of his spoon upon the coffee mug. She would be at home, he thought. Or perhaps visiting friends. It mattered little anyway, except that he would need her to pick up the child, his hours being long and little to bring him home again.
At lunch, they were to meet in a downtown café. As he flew from work into an empty sky, he wondered vaguely when the passion of that first flight had been lost to him. He struggled against an uneasy current. They were to meet, but he’d forgotten why. When he lighted upon the café, he found himself alone, for he himself had been forgotten. He selected a table facing the entrance, yet the thought of watching for her didn’t enter his mind. Sometimes upon the wing, as one strives for other things, or no longer strives at all, distractions present themselves. He set himself to watch for distractions.
Half an hour later, the woman he would have sex with that afternoon alighted onto the café. He noticed her enter and thought her face had a pleasing shape. She had spun earthward, wings straining, and with every determined flicker, her scent billowed beneath her. He watched her breasts as she walked past, studied her calf muscles and then decided. The memory he had struggled to recall while sitting at work suddenly seemed unimportant. He sought out her attention; they smiled at one another. They left to spend time apart from the world of flight.
Afterward, he reached a hand to touch her, but the foliage shifted and a discordant light illuminated their coupling. Suddenly repulsed, he halted mid-gesture, only reaching far enough for his fingertip to drag across her flesh. The decaying slough gathered beneath his nail. Her face hung slack like death. Her wings lay broken, and the tattered membrane scratched dryly on the sheets. Pain superseded desire. His own wings hung forgotten, a weight upon his shoulders. Light from the window hesitated above the opaque surface.
Pelted by the rain, he returned to work late but free from her smell. He spoke excuses that rang hollow and rang true.
The afternoon is when he will wait. The crescendo of flight will have passed. Purpose and desire, coupled as lovers, bound like cause and effect, will no longer elicit support from a disinterested sky. At the advent of dusk, when the sun’s rays are elongated across the earth, the light will grow too weak to support a creature of flight. He will fall earthward; the old music will ring hauntingly and will not bear his weight. The pen will run dry, drag a scar across the page, and the fibers of the paper will gather like the slough from her skin. Nothing will remain but home, yet home will have become a nothing.
His eyes, weary from seeing so little, will flutter, flutter twice, grow heavy, grow dim. He will die on the first day of spring. He will die as others have died, as we will die. This is what will be. (This is what is.)
Kenneth D. Reimer lives on the Canadian Great Plains with his wife, Lisa, and a cat named Nazca who likes to bite him on the leg. Whenever possible, he travels the world and attempts to record its wonders. His favorite art form is the short story, but he enjoys non-fiction, and poetry. Occasionally, he takes on the challenge of longer fiction, ranging from novellas to novels. Zero Time, his novel of time travel, is available on Amazon. Samples of his other writing can be viewed at KennethDReimer.com.
