Short Fiction

The Man Who Can Fly

By Christian Mueth

I’ve traveled from each edge of the universe, leapt through wormholes, turned solar systems into my personal jewelry, and raced against light (I always win, for the record). I’ve peered into black holes, I've found rest in the company of neutron stars, I've found clarity amongst nebula, and I’ve tamed quantum mechanics to my bidding.

Hanging over the vastness of the cosmos, I’ve found it all to be void. I try to make a chat with it, but I get no answer. I sing, but my songs go unheard.

The stars have turned me deaf, and the stars are deaf in turn.

There’s only one place where I’ve heard any sounds… One place where lyrics are more than a fiction of my mind.

It’s on an accursed rock where everything seems to move… Despite there being so much life, it’s crueler than anything else that I’ve perceived. It’s dumber than anything that I’ve perceived.

I heard him talking about it once. He said it was a precious pearl. He said that it was the most beautiful of all the things that he’d seen.

He was wrong. I know it.

I’m on the accursed rock now. There’s a discolored Ferris wheel nearby, creaking and groaning as it turns. Next to it is a sad excuse for a roller-coaster car, slowly riding up and down its hilly tracks. The ground is littered in wrappers, and sticky bits of cotton candy. The air smells of… burnt peanuts. Burnt peanuts, and rotting hay.

I hear screams, as the Ferris wheel stalls. I hear the braying of a goat, as it bangs against its small cage. I hear a broken record-player, as it repeats the same note.

I hear no song.

“Would you like some balloons, little missy? Yuck-yuck!”

It’s a clown, with a face smeared in makeup. He’s left a crying girl in his wake. Behind him is a balding strong-man, and a portly trapeze artist. They try to comfort the girl, but their haggard voices do no better than the clown.

There’s one sound worth hearing in this place, though… One sound that has made me come here.

“Step right up! Step right up, and see the trick of a lifetime! Prepare to see the man who can fly!”

A slim young man, dressed in a dapper black suit, leans at the exit.

Every time somebody passes, he tries to get them to play a game with him. If they win, they get to see him fly— if he wins, he gets to take their money. The game is simple. The people just have to guess his age.

It’s a scam.

“Sorry… Wrong again! Who else wants to see the man who can fly!?” he shouts.

He lies.

The words he says aren’t the sounds I’ve come to hear, though. Rather, it’s the sound of leather wallets, jangling coins, and crinkling dollar bills, as they’re snatched from out of people’s pockets. It doesn’t matter if people want to play the game or not. Whoever walks by him loses their money. His fingers are nimble. He gets the change every time. Nobody is spared.

Nobody.

I’m a ghost to the man. Even as I try pulling his arm back to stop him, he can’t feel me. Even as I whisper stop into his ears, he can’t hear me. Not that I should care anyway— it’s not as if anything changes if he takes their change. Their pearl still spins. Yet— even in knowing this, my head still spins.

It changes from dusk to dark. Creaks, groans, laughs, and screams have been swallowed by the moonlight. The man walks off from the now locked exit, with his pockets fat with cash. I watch as he disappears into his tent. It’s hardly lit, and illuminates with a pale white glow. I go in.

He might not have seen me before. However, all ghosts can be seen in the dark.

“Hello, Atticus,” I say.

His face goes paler than the small lamp that he’s holding over his pile of money.

“Who— who are you?” he asks.

He appears smaller than he did. His body trembles. He looks at me with a fear that I’ve never quite seen before.

“You’re the cleverest person that I’ve laid eyes on,” I say.

Atticus shoves his hand into his jacket— he’s reaching for his pistol. I snatch it, and freeze his hand. He opens his mouth to scream, but I freeze that too.

“You’re also the most revolting. Tonight, it’s time for you to meet your end. I’ve seen many people and things on this earth that have lived out cruel existences… but you? You’re something different. You’re the cruelest that I’ve seen.”

I prepare to strip apart every molecule in his body. However, I can’t help but pause from the proceeding when I see his eyes. They seem to ask me— why.

“I’ll give you your last word,” I say.

The last word— it’s a pitiful human convention. Though, I still grant him it. I give him back his speech.

“I— I don’t know why you’re so hell-bent on killing me, of all people,” says Atticus. “But, I do know one thing. If you’re going to kill me, it might as well be fair.”

I stare at him, blankly. I don’t allow even the slightest expression to form on my face.

“I’d like to challenge you to a battle of wits,” he says. “If I win, then I get to go away with my life. I get to continue to be the man who flies… If you win, you can do whatever you wish with me.”

“I wish you dead. And, I’ve seen you play games with people a million times over. You’re a cheat. That’s why I’m terminating you…”

“Wait, wait, wait! If you want to kill me because I only win when cheat at games, then you might as well give me a shot at a game where I don’t have a chance to cheat— a shot at actually losing. That way, you can properly teach me a lesson.”

“And what game might that be? There’s hardly a game you’ve come up with where you don’t cheat— and there’s not a single fair game that you can play with me where you will win.”

He stops dead. I watch his eyes dart as he scrambles to come up with a retort.

“Tic-tac-toe.”

I hold back a laugh. He looks back, defiantly.

“And, what are the rules to that game, exactly?” I ask.

He pulls out a pad and pen, and demonstrates it to me. It’s a fair enough game, even if its structure is somewhat archaic.

“Alright then. We’ll play your petty game for a moment. I believe that we’ve already set the boundaries. Let’s begin.”

Round 1. I make the first move, and put an X in a box. Atticus makes the next. Several more moves are made, before we finally reach a draw.

“Sorry,” Atticus says, with a red face. “I suppose that it was just a coincidence.”

I nod. Perhaps it is.

Round 2. More X’s. More O’s. Another draw.

Atticus tells me it’s a coincidence. I nod. Another sheet of paper is ripped off.

Round 3. Another draw.

Round 4. Yet another.

Round 5. Draw.

6, 7, 8, 9… Draw, draw, draw, draw.

“You tricked me,” I say. “This game—there are only so many moves. If we both play at optimum strategy, neither of us will ever lose.”

“We will play until one of us breaks” Atticus says back, with a sly grin. “Now… Prepare to see the man who can fly.”

Round 59: Atticus still grins at me smugly, as we come to a draw, and he draws up another paper. Rain pours down, and beats at our tent. A maple tint leaks from between the soaked tent flaps— the sun is beginning to rise.

I don’t care though. My mind is only focused on beating Atticus. He’s naïve. I’ll beat him when he isn’t looking. When he isn’t prepared.

“I’m not all that sure who, or what, you are,” says Atticus.

“I’m not keen on telling.”

“Not going to give me your story? Well, that’s the coward’s way out. I might as well give you some of mine: For the longest time, I always thought that I just was. Never knew much more about my past than what I could see directly. Growing up though, I was told that I was carried by the storks. Heh— kids will believe anything that’s told to them. But, I guess that it was a lot better than being told that I was found on the street.”

Atticus sighs— he makes another draw.

“See? Easy. I’m not afraid. Now, step right up. Prepare to see the man who can fly.”

Round 289: We run out of papers, so I make a new stack. It’s night outside again, and I can hear the crickets chirping.

I can hear Atticus chirping.

“Getting tired yet?” he asks, with a chuckle.

“Not particularly.”

“Good. I don’t get tired either— it’s like my body produces its own caffeine, or something. I do remember one night that I was tired when I was a kid, though. It had been a long day. Back then, there was this old workshop that I worked at. I was sore all over.”

Atticus holds back a grin.

“I went to my cot in the workshop’s basement… I slept like a rock. I remember dreaming about walking on the clouds— grabbing them. Tasting them. Ah… I always dreamt about the strangest things.”

Atticus makes us draw— he makes us smile.

“Step right up. Prepare to see the man who can fly.”

Round 2,009: A week has passed. The grass outside the tent has grown, and the brittle weather has finally begun to let up. Our game hasn’t though. The floor of the tent is smothered with paper.

“I used to play this game a lot,” says Atticus. “The workshop might’ve always been humming with the smell of sawdust— but, I didn’t always have that much to do. To pass the time, I’d pull out sheets of paper, and play against the workshop owner’s son. I eventually got so good that I would win every time.”

I watch him pause, before he made his last move. Another draw. Another piece of paper.

“One day, I got bored of the game. I made a paper man, and a paper plane. I put the little man inside, and I threw it. I made the man fly.”

A draw. A paper.

A whisper. “Step right up. Prepare to see the man who can fly.”

Round 9,079: A month has drained through the cracks of our tent. I can already see that the tent’s color has begun to fade, and that the outside of the tent has begun to look quite unruly. However, the game must go on. I’m firm in this.

“How many times are we going to play this game?” asks Atticus.

“We will play until one of us breaks,” I say.

“Breaks,” Atticus repeats. “I didn’t have those very often at the workshop. When I was a tween though, there was one break that I was given that I can remember vividly. The workshop owner took me to his friend’s heliport. I remember sitting inside a helicopter. I remember hearing the helicopter hum like a saw. As I rode into the air, the clouds and moon were not far above me, and the ground was far below me. It was the first time I ever flew.”

Atticus starts folding our paper into a plane, before stopping himself.

“After that I became obsessed with flying. I’d digest anything that there was to do with it— air balloons, helicopters, planes. I guess that I was always obsessed with the idea of flight. But, back in those days? You would’ve hardly found me doing anything else.”

Atticus writes his on the paper, putting us at a draw.

“Step right up. Prepare to see the man who can fly.”

Round 108,869: A year has passed. The tent is in tatters now, and I can see the abandoned remains of the carnival outside of its many holes. The carnival is closed down now.

The game isn’t.

“Gee… You— you weren’t kidding when you said that you wouldn’t give up,” says Atticus.

“I’m never kidding.”

“Never kidding? Yes, I think I’ve figured that out… I suppose that you’re not the only person I’ve met who’s hard to make smile though…”

Atticus makes a draw, and pulls out another sheet of paper.

“I was 14. There was a girl that came into the workshop, every so often. She was apparently a friend of the owner’s son. Though, she certainly didn’t seem it. Most of the time, she just sat by the entrance door, saying nothing.

“One day, I worked up the courage to talk to her. Her name was Amelia— she told me that with the first smile I’d ever seen her make. As far as I was concerned, there wasn’t another person on Earth like her.

“We had one of those conversations that lasted all the way until the only light left was moonlight. But, she had to go, and I had to too. Before we split our own ways though, our eyes met. Our lips touched. My heart fluttered…

“Step right up. Prepare to see the man who can fly.”

Round 1,088,649: A decade has passed. We’re neck-deep in a pile of papers. Most of the carnival lot has been plowed up, and emptied. All that remains are ragged bits of our tent fabric, which sits in a removed bubble of its own.

Wrinkles have begun to take over Atticus’s face— and, I think that I can see a graying streak in his hair.

“You look older,” I say.

“Sitting in a room with you can do that.”

Atticus’s brow furrows, as he makes his move.

“I don’t want to play anymore… I’m not sure what you’ve done to make me last this long, but I’m exhausted.”

It’s a draw.

“You have to play,” I say.

Atticus complies.

“I suppose that, if I’m going to be stuck here forever, I might as well tell you the rest of my story,” he says.

He stretches smarmily, and cracks his knuckles.

“It happened that I made a plan with Amelia. I told her that I would save up enough money to train to be a pilot. It was a pie-in-the-sky sort of dream, but it was a dream that I stuck to. Every dollar that I made, every dime that I came across— it all went into a fund I made for myself. I remember putting everything that I was into that fund…

“Though, it’s impossible to plan for everything that occurs in life. The workshop had gone downhill over the years, and as had his health. His son had gone on to college, for bigger and better things, and the only person left to help him was— well— me.

“Every cent that I’d saved up went into keeping that man’s business alive, and protecting his health. I worked myself ragged. I tried my best. However, it was a dying company, and he was a dying man. After a year, the place had to be foreclosed.

“I went looking for help— but, there was nobody to help me. I wasn’t one to make many connections. And, in my busyness, Amelia had left me for another man. I suppose that it should’ve been expected— first love rarely lasts. But, I was still alone. When the old man died quickly thereafter, the last of the most important people in my life were gone. I was left to the streets, with nothing to my name.

“I suppose that there’s one silver lining to it all. The man is likely in heaven now— a place where he can walk on the clouds freely, forever.

“Step right up… Prepare to see the man who can fly.”

Atticus rubs his eyes, and stares back down at the table.

“You haven’t told me the rest of your story,” I say.

“I’m only going to tell you the rest of my story if I’m stuck here forever. It’s not forever yet.”

A draw.

“I can still beat you.”

Round 54,999,999: Half a century has passed, and we now sit on a small mountain of paper. The tent is gone. An enormous skyscraper now inhabits the place where the old carnival used to be.

Atticus is older now— feebler. He doesn’t move or act as quickly. His face has turned to leather, and his hair has turned to snow.

I watch as Atticus begins to write on the paper. But, his arm falters. He lets out a hoarse cough.

“I guess I should tell you the rest of that story now,” he says. “It’s not as if there’s much left of me to hide.”

“You don’t have much left at all.”

“Thanks, I hadn’t noticed… Anyway, after having lost everything— the first time that I lost everything, not this current time— and, after living on the street for a few days, I looked for jobs. Eventually, I went to the carnival for a job— they’ve always liked taking freaks. It was a filthy job, sure. I had to lie a lot. But, I made money— decent money. And, living on the carnival lot wasn’t so bad.

“One night though… One night, I couldn’t take it. I walked down to the bridge overlooking the city bay. I remember staring into the water, thinking that I should jump— jump, and become the man who can fly. However, I stopped when I saw the man in the moon, reflecting in the water. I remember looking at it, and thinking: it looks like a pearl. I remember then coming to the realization that the whole world was a pearl— that, while it was the only thing that I knew of, it was also the most precious thing that I knew of. I left the bridge, and went back home, to my tent.

“And, wouldn’t you have it? The very next night, you showed up. How convenient. Still not sure why I’ve fought tooth and nail over my life, with you…

“Then again, while I might be a despicable person… I’m also the man who can fly.”

I hear Atticus’s heart flutter. And then, it stops short. Atticus slumps back into his chair, his face pale as a sheet. He draws— he draws his last breath.

I look down at the sheet of paper. Atticus would’ve lost the game. He’d made the wrong move.

Atticus had won though. He’d made the right move.

I do the only thing that I feel is right. I bring life back to Atticus. In the end, he truly had proven me wrong.

The tent is back up. Atticus is a young man in a dapper suit again. I can see the morning sun bleeding through the flaps of the tent. The carnival has returned too, with its smell of hay and roasted peanuts.

I hear Atticus’s heart beating again— I hear a song.

Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps the world really is a pearl.

End