1: to be like Bessie

       “I want to fly.” 

       That single phrase, those four simple words, have haunted me for my entire life.

       Instead of looking forwards or backwards, instead of watching my step or treading carelessly, I've always looked up and watched the sky. The aging buildings, the decaying economy, the nearly extinct entertainment industry and the world around me fraying at the seams; none of it mattered so long as I could follow the birds with my eyes and imagine that I, too, could spread out my wings and depart. I, too, could fly towards that misty skyline and beyond, into the graying heavens to dance among the darkening clouds and soar with the sparrows.

       I wanted it, wanted it so badly, but then I got older and reality hit.

       I realized that people couldn't actually fly on their own and I couldn't grow my own wings. I wasn't born with them and genetic engineering hadn't come that far yet. I was really sad about it for a long time, so long that instead of looking up I had started looking down, my sights and dreams crashing and breaking like an eggshell to the ground. That is, until I became 8 years old and my family moved to a growing community practically in the middle of nowhere an hour away from the nearest town. It was there that I looked up in time to see a man climb into a small aircraft and take off. 

       I was stunned, so very entranced as I watched him ascend and begin spiraling before a small trail of fog followed his path and the words "Believe in your dreams" were born to the heavens on a cloudless day. 

       At that moment, I decided that I would do just that: I would be like Bessie and become a pilot. 

       I could still fly, maybe even write my own letters in the sky, but it would only be for a few hours at a time instead of forever.

       This much, I could do. 

       It was with this in mind that I had filled out the application. I was almost 16 years old, hadn't even taken my driving test yet, but just knew I had to get my Pilot's Certificate and then an actual job. I didn't want to be a sport pilot or a recreational one. I wanted to be a private pilot and fly for a living, even if I had never been in an airplane a day in my life. I wanted to get my feet off of the ground and soar, but it took more than just wanting to fly these days.

       Airplanes, helicopters. spaceships, even hot air balloons; for some reason the flight industry was at a standstill. These mechanisms of travel and exploration were still around, but it was getting increasingly rare to see them in action unless they influenced your day-to-day life. You had to live in either a place with an uninterrupted view of the sky above or a bustling city that necessitated the consistent use of these means in order to truly notice their presence. Some would say the industry was at a dead end, but arguably public interest in aeronautics had also reached an impasse of sorts as well. With the economy in shambles, diseases running rampant, random fluxes in crime, diminishing fossil fuels, climate control issues, animal extinction, and increasing threats of all types, it was easy to see why kids didn't grow up wanting to go to space. They were too busy trying to be politicians, ambassadors, agriculturists, economists,  ecologists, doctors, lawyers, nurses, pharmacists, police officers, biologists, firefighters, microbiologists, reporters, zoologists, and joining the Armed Forces - and even then, people flew because they had to, not because they wanted to. 

       There were so many other concerns, so many other problems to be dealt with, that kids these days no longer took the time to look up. And if they had, they wouldn't have seen much beyond their current circumstances. 

       Even the skies were losing their color, having long ago traded in their clear and light-hearted blues for cloudy and smoky grays. 

       But I still wanted to fly, and I promised myself I would... 

       ...until the day my application was intercepted from the mail.

       “Dyani, what is this?” 

       I had just walked into the house, arms laden with groceries that I had yet to deposit into the kitchen. The house was silent, eerily so as I looked into the eyes of my mother and noticed an opened envelope in her hands. My father sat silently across from her and my siblings were nowhere in sight. 

       This was not a good sign. 

       Walking closer, I noticed the emblem on the front and instantly recognized it as the response to the application I had filled out two months ago, the one that I had been waiting for, checking the mail at least twice a day for the past month in the hopes of receiving. It would figure that the day I'm asked to pick up groceries would be the day that I miss it. 

       “The letter I've been waiting for,” I answered honestly. “The one where they tell me whether or not I've been accepted into their program.” 

       “Why didn't you tell us you applied to flight school?” My mother questioned, “What happened to ‘going to college’?” 

       “I did tell you, you just never listened.” 

       I regretted them the second the words left my mouth. The frowns that were already present deepened considerably and both pairs of eyes were now narrowed directly at me, but it was too late to back down now. I took a deep breath before dropping my bombshell: their traditional idea of college had never been in my plans. 

       “Don't get smart with your mother,” my father snapped, anger coating his tone. 

       “I'm not trying to get smart, I'm trying to explain.” I struggled to keep my voice low and even. Even the slightest hint of disrespect could have this going beyond the point of no return. “This is like college, only for what I actually want to do. It's a college for flight pilots. I can get trained, get my certificate, and get a job. It's faster and easier this way.” 

       “No, the airline industry is too dangerous and unstable. Just do what we said: go to college, graduate on time, and get a good job,” my father insisted, jaw set into a firm line.

       When he got like this, the only way to go was to appeal to my mother, but even she looked more or less unmoved.  

       Sighing, she aided his argument. 

       “Dee, sweetie, we only want what's best for you,” she started, trying to appeal to my sensibilities. “We want you to be stable, to have enough to live your life without having to struggle. The way the world is now, people can't afford to just run off and get by on hopes and dreams. You need a plan---”

       “And I already have one,” I interrupted, frustration growing by the second. “I'm going to get my pilot's certificate, then maybe a helicopter license, and find work either with a news station or as a tour guide. Then, after I collect a good number of hours for experience, I can---” 

       “Dyani Deryn Davis, do you have a hearing problem?” the sudden calm that had come from my father should have been a warning, but for some reason I missed the signs.

       I paused, not understanding where this was going, and he spoke again in a slightly louder voice.

       “Answer the question: do you have a hearing problem?” 

       “No, Daddy, I don't.” 

       “Then don't make us repeat ourselves. We said you're not going, so you're not going. Case Closed. End of Discussion. Do you understand?” 

       “But Dad---” 

       “I said DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!” he roard, at this point turning and standing with eyes widened with anger. 

       I stared back silently, already knowing from experience that this was more rhetorical than anything else. 

       “We feed you, clothe you, give you a roof over your head, and pay for your school and life and this is how you repay us? HUH?!”

       I stayed silent, watching with an air of defiance as my father took the paper from my mother and lifted it for all to see. 

       “If this is really your dream, then you'd better find a new one. As long as you live in my house, YOU WILL DO AS I SAY!” 

       And with that I watched as he tore my letter in halves, then in fourths, and then into sixths and eighths. With each tear, each angry rip and shred, I felt a tiny piece of my heart join the pieces now collecting on the ground. Dropping the tatters still in his hands onto the floor, he then marched past me to leave the room, uncaring as his shoulder violently brushed me aside for being in the way. 

       Meanwhile my mother only looked on for a moment, the tiniest bit of guilt hiding deep within her eyes surrounded by layer upon layer of silent agreement. She stood and walked past me quietly, only stopping to offer my mournful profile a few words. 

       “You do realize that we're only doing what's best for you, right?” 

       She lifted her hand, as if to pat my shoulder in a sign of comfort, but I shifted my eyes toward her and sent her all of the amger amd fury that I felt, all of the words that I could not express and all of the betrayal that I hid inside.

       As far as I was concerned, she was my Judas and he was my Pontius Pilate. I would never forgive her. 

       She flinched, her hand instantly falling to her side and her own eyes hardening in response, leaving me with one last phrase: 

       “Clean up this mess and stop crying. You're too old to still be dreaming of flying.” 

       I didn't even feel the tears until after she had left the room. 

       Wow, this ended up being a little bit of a history lesson and intro for our main protagonist, not to mention a lot more depressing than I originally thought. Who knew? 

       So, yeah, comments, compliments, critiques and the like are all welcome and highly encouraged. Also, shout out to my first four subscribers (eleventhirty, Halfie28, man1727, & Aplusbbc)! I really appreciate the fact that you all came through even before I had anything worth reading (extra kudos to man1727 for being my first comment too). Thank you all so much for the support! Also, to everyone who might possibly be reading this, I look forward to all comments and polite criticisms, so please don't write something short that literally tells me nothing (ie. "please update soon!!!"). You don't have to write an essay, just write me enough so that I can get an idea of how you feel about my work. I like to know what my readers are thinking, so please give as much insight as you can or feel like at any given time. Anything is appreciated, even just a "read this a while ago and liked it, so just wanted to say hi and can't wait for the next one". That kind of thing makes me smile and want to hurry and come up with something new, so yeah... 

       Guess that's it. I'm not gonna promise that updates will be fast or consistent (because my writer's block is usually as wide as a canyon and school takes priority), but I hope I can start updating this and the others that I already have on a more regular basis. Sorry for the unreliability. 

Thanks again and stay safe! 

[-] DoMeSi