It started in Tunbridge Wells. Look Mummy, I’m flying. Then it hit London. A businessman took it to New York. From there, it invaded China. Everyone loved it. No one stopped to question the lack of wings. Or how long the earth had slowly been slipping away from underneath them.
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Carly said in her letter how her mom had been hovering more lately. I pictured Carly’s mom, light as feathers, floating, head brushing the ceiling, space between her feet and the floor, her skirts so you could look up them. I laughed then, thinking how Carly must have meant ‘hoovering’.
Ariel had to weigh herself down with tins in her pockets and heavy shoes on her feet. Otherwise she’d float away from us. Sometimes, when she begged, no tins and no shoes, just string tied to her ankle, I’d let her rise off the floor. Ariel was so beautiful then.
Better out than in, my dad used to say. He was talking farts. He said if you kept them in you’d swell up like a balloon and one day float away. I so wanted to fly. So I tried what he told me not to. It just gave me bellyache.
Muriel in the dark and the quiet of her midnight room. Using all her powers of concentration. Eyes shut. Pushing up on tip-toes. Arms spread wide as wings. Stroking the air. Willing herself to leave the ground. And just for a moment - thinks she feels not connected to things. Really.
I just love the thought of flying or not been anchored to the ground... so I got carried away again with writing these fifty word thingies... they are quite addictive, I find.
Love that photograph, Sarah.
A leap of faith was all that was needed to link her bat to his ball. She had never been one for games and she couldn't stand the suspense any longer. Like jumping off a cliff and not knowing if the net would save her, she did it. Love all.
Cor, flying obviously brings out good things in us! Let's do more...
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