Truth in Flight

Emory R. Frie

          Fly /flī/ verb 1. (of a bird or other winged creature) to move in or pass through the air under control; 2. to fade and disappear; 3. to seem to pass quickly; 4. to become expended or dissipated rapidly; 5. to operate or travel in an airplane or spacecraft; 6. to move or be hurled quickly through the air.

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          Dandelion wisdom on how wishes work: you break, you wish, you let it go, and you grow.

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          Across the world, an Osprey crashed off the coast of Australia. Wheels scraped the ship deck, wings hit the ocean, and plane nosedived into the Coral Sea. The windshield busted open, and pilot thought co-pilot escaped. Shattered leg and saltwater, and pilot lived to discover co-pilot died on impact.

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          Moths are drawn to things that kill them, and I have known too many moths.

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          There’s a sameness and a difference between water and sky. Both are in constant state of motion. With water, you can see the motion: ripples, waves, light reflecting off a shifting silk surface. But with sky, you cannot see its motion. You only see what it moves.

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          Birds often leave me behind.

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          When Lucifer fell, did he saw his wings from his spine? Did he drop them before God’s feet, wings once strong and vast, and claim he did not need them even as he bled? How many angel wings broke in suicidal rejection of fatherly love? Did they merely want to feel the sensation of falling? Did they know of the crash that would inevitably follow a wingless drop? Did they care?

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          She who always said “no” was safe, but never happy. She who always said “yes” did much but was never happy. The happy one said both.

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          The world is made up of worms and caterpillars, and you’ll never know the difference until one transforms into someone you hardly recognize. They will dazzle you with their wings and they will show you that change is never the end. Worms are caterpillars who refuse to grow.

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          You fly to New Zealand, to Nicaragua, to Australia, to England, to France. I never wanted you to stay. I wanted you to take me with you.

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          Icarus crafted wings of paper and glue, and he flew too close to the sun. His downfall wasn’t in his proximity to heat, it was in the materials he used. It is better to fly on dreams and heartstrings—you can always heal them if they break.

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          My backup plan is in the cockpit. If I can’t pay to fly, then I’ll get paid to fly. So wherever I end up, it will involve the sky.

Fall, 2018 Issue

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