Friday, 23 April 2010
I CAN FLY by Pixie J. King
I Can Fly
Connor walked up the pathway of his house to the side gate. He looked underneath the plant pot and found the key to the garage. He unlocked the side door and stepped inside, flicked on the light. He smiled as he took off his blood smeared school tie, hung it on the handle of the lawn mower.
He breathed in deeply, taking in the musky smells of wood and dust, the damp of the concrete. He could smell oil and paint stripper and he grinned. He was home. Safe. No bully in the world could touch him here.
That happy feeling soon disappeared as he looked into the mirror and sighed. He didn’t fancy telling his mother how he got a shiner on his eye, blood on his shirt and bruises on his ribs, and he didn’t want to. It was hard enough trying to convince his mother that he could fly, let alone a group of bullies.
He shook his head, turned around and pulled off the blanket of what looked like a wooden go kart and threw it on the floor. He looked down at the kart and moved over to his work bench and took a paint brush and paint, then painted the wood of the kart flame red.
‘Connor, your dinner’s ready,’ his mother said, standing in the doorway of the garage, arms crossed.
Connor looked at the time. He sighed, forgot to put new batteries in the clock. ‘Yeah, sure mama just gotta wash my hands.’ He looked at his kart. He would test it out after dinner.
Connor moved inside and washed his hands and dried them, then sat down to dinner.
‘Connor darling, whatever happened to your eye?’ his mother asked, concerned. ‘And you have blood down your shirt, have you been in a fight?’
Connor didn’t look at his mother, played with his food. ‘Yes mama, I was in a fight.’
His mother sighed. ‘Connor baby, whatever happened?’
‘Some kids punched and kicked me, it’s nothing mama, don’t worry about me. Look, can I go?’
‘Go where? You’ve barely touched your food. Aren’t you hungry?’
Connor shook his head. ‘No mama, I’m not. I’m sorry, excuse me.’ He stood and moved into the kitchen and stepped outside, down the side and out the side gate. He opened the garage door and moved his go kart outside onto the drive.
His mother hurried out the door, panicking. ‘Connor what are you doing?’
Connor faced his mother. ‘I’m gunna fly mama, I’m gunna show them and I’m gunna fly.’ He moved back inside and grabbed his helmet and goggles.
‘But Connor, please, listen to me,’ she pleaded. ‘You can’t fly, you’re not able to and that...that thing of yours won’t allow you to!’
Connor dumped his stuff into the kart and moved over to his mother. He took hold of her hands. ‘Listen to me mama, I need to do this, and I need to prove it to you, to them, to everyone. I will fly mama.’ He kissed her on the cheek. ‘Wish me luck.’
He moved over to his kart and started pushing it down the road.
His mother stood there, horrified, unable to go after him. ‘Connor come back! Please, Connor, please.’
Connor waved goodbye to his mother as he pushed the kart down the road and towards the seafront.
It was sunset by the time Connor had finally pushed his go kart to the top of the cliff. He could feel the sea breeze; taste the salt on his tongue. He heard the waves as they crashed against the rocks below and smiled. He loved that sound.
He put on his helmet and gloves and then slipped the goggles on over his helmet. He pushed the go kart back down the hill, to allow the run up and pulled out the wings on the kart.
He sat inside, pulled down the goggles and began to peddle fast, the kart moving, the wings battering against the ground. He gathered speed, the swiftly approaching the edge of the cliff. The sun was now low in the sky, bringing with it dark purples and blues.
Connor grinned; convinced he was going to fly. He reached the edge of the cliff at a fast pace.
He felt the kart go up slightly, and he pedalled as hard as he could to carry on flying. He felt the kart move downwards, felt a rush of the wind against his face as gravity clawed at his body. His fingers tightened around the steering wheel, knuckles white. The world around him turned in a colourful blur, and he became disorientated.
Vocal cords opened and he screamed as the blackness punched a hole though his senses. He didn’t feel anything as the kart smashed against the rocks.
‘A dog walker spotted the wreck on the beach this morning at low tide,’ the police sergeant said to Mrs Potts. ‘All they could find was these goggles. Are they your son’s?’
Mrs Potts burst into tears. ‘That’s my boy’s....my boy...is he dead?’
The sergeant nodded. ‘I’m afraid so. The coast guard is out there looking for his body now. We’re sorry for the loss of your eight year old son, Mrs Potts.’
Pixie is a student who is new to the writing world, and writes when she can, where she can. Her work is mainly flash fiction and poems with the occasional short story. She is now however embarking on the mammoth task of writing a novel, and is finding it very daunting.
Pixie’s work can be found at http://theworksofpixiejking.blogspot.com