Flying Witout Wings

<body topmargin=0 leftmargin=0 marginheight=0 marginwidth=0> <table cellpadding=0 cellspacing=0 border=0 height="100%"><tr> <td valign="top" width=205 BGCOLOR="#003333" TEXT="#F7F7FF" background="12ad4c00dduajq.gif"> <div> <TABLE BORDER="0" CELLPADDING="2" CELLSPACING="0" WIDTH="95" BORDERCOLORLIGHT="#C0C0C0" BORDERCOLORDARK="#808080" FRAME="BOX" RULES="ALL" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" > <tR> <tD VALIGN=TOP HEIGHT= 46 ><NOBR><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="46" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="91" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></NOBR></tD> </tR> </TABLE></div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <A HREF="id61.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE=" selection of Short Stories"><U><B>More Stories</B></U></A></div> <bR> <div> <A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="stan hedges homepage"><U><B>Homepage</B></U></A></div> <bR> <bR> <div> email:</div> <div> sonoflawrence@yahoo.co.uk</div> <div> (Not live link. Cut & Paste)</div> <bR> </td> <td valign="top" BGCOLOR="#FFFBF0" TEXT="#080000"> <div>     </div> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <B>Flying Without Wings</B></div> <bR> <div> S. T. Hedges</div> <div> (2,500 Words)</div> <bR> <div> IT was growing dusk.  After a day's drive, Theo was hundreds of miles from Hampstead, on a high scenic road, still heading west, thinking he was probably in Devon. Glancing down to his left, a small fishing village with a small harbour lay nestling between two immense cliffs.  It looked quiet enough.  It would certainly do well enough for his needs. After half a mile or so he pulled off onto an area of common land and parked close to the cliff edge, front wheels tantalizingly close.  It was 9.00 pm.</div> <div> After crawling wearily from the car, he stood for a few minutes gazing at the view, seeing mile upon mile of cliffs stretching in both directions, glowing pink and golden in the last throws of the dying sun.  The beauty of it all was as stunning as ever.  Enthralled, he watched the sky change gradually through pink, orange, and then purple. Another farewell; another day fading into oblivion. Would it be his last sunset?</div> <div> In the harbour below, boats of all kinds lay moored, bobbing head to wind. Even at this height he could make out the tinkle of halyards, and remembered how there had once been a time when sailing his boat was all it took to be happy.  He needed a drink.</div> <div> It was around 9.30 as he strolled around the harbour in search of a pub. Approaching 'The Sailor's Arms', there came the sound of a woman singing one of his favourite ballads, 'She Moves Through the Fair'.  Finding a folk group jamming in a corner, his spirits lifted a little.  Among other things, he'd enjoyed the odd folk festival from time to time. </div> <div> By the third pint the singer-cum-barmaid began to look attractive - having made it obvious the feeling was mutual. 'Barmaid is willing,' he thought. And so what? That was the last thing he needed.  No, he'd spent his last night with a woman.</div> <bR> <bR> <div> Two years before, Theo had suddenly become impotent.  He was thirty, and he and Rhea had been married seven years. It was some weeks before he showed signs of depression, which is when Rhea suggested a visit to the doctor, saying there was bound to be some pill or other that would do the trick. But Theo refused, was adamant, saying he wasn't inclined to discuss his sexual capacity or, for that matter, his private life, with strangers.  It just wasn't him. </div> <div> But when he was unable to see the point of rising from his bed one morning, Rhia finally took things into her own hands and called in Dr. Baker.  Subsequently, after various tests, no physical reason for Theo's impotence could be found.  However, suspecting suicidal tendencies, Dr Baker referred him to Mr Murchison, a psychiatrist. </div> <div> After several sessions, Murchison concluded that Theo's subconscious appeared to have come to look upon Rhea as something other than a wife or mistress.  From what little Theo was prepared to describe of their past sex life, there seemed a possibility that Rhea's own mind may never have accepted him as a sexual partner from the beginning, but rather as a kind of surrogate father; a replacement for her own effeminate father.  If true, this could explain it. It might also explain why she'd always left all the decision-making to him, and behaved like the abused, submissive child in bed, a passive non-participant in their lovemaking. For Theo, it also explained why such a magnificent body had shown so little aptitude for its manifestly discrete purpose.  Explained why, at those times when he'd been determined to force her to initiate their lovemaking, admit her sexual needs were as great as his own - occasions when he'd abstained for weeks, then finally capitulated - had all been in vain.  </div> <div> "Simply as a matter of interest,' said Murchison, 'perhaps by way of experiment, I suppose you've never considered … never thought of…?" </div> <div> Theo made no answer.  Until that moment the thought of another woman had never entered his mind, he hadn't thought of other women in that way since the day he married Rhia. </div> <div> Murchison concluded the session by saying Theo only had to keep reinforcing the idea that his relationship was most certainly not incestuous, but the most natural thing in the world.  'A few months should do the trick.  Can't the two of you get away somewhere?  Spend a month in the sun? Amazing what a drop of sunshine can do for the old hormones.'  </div> <div> That day, for the first time, Theo left Murchison with a positive feeling.  He would give life another chance.  For months now, his thoughts had revolved around death, not procreation; unable to see any alternative.  But as he walked back to Baker Street tube station, he found himself looking at every woman he passed, aware of a certain excitement. Sexual excitement. He'd almost forgotten the innocent pleasure of indulging in sexual fantasies with strangers. Moreover, he found he could still engage the eye of any woman he wanted. At least that hadn't changed. Perhaps Murchison was right. Perhaps another woman would do the trick.  Perhaps, if only for the sake of experiment.... </div> <bR> <bR> <div> He discovered Sophie, a newly-fledged actress not long out of drama school; a flaxen-haired beauty with green eyes and a seemingly insatiable appetite for sexual adventure. Not only that, but a girl who demanded he enjoy his lovemaking, a novelty which, naturally, soon made life good and abundantly well worth living.</div> <div> But when he became infatuated with his mistress, no one who has lived through the experience will be surprised to learn that Theo found the misfortune both sad and joyous. For he still loved Rhea.  Not as in the first heat - no mind could endure such a conflagration indefinitely.  No, it was her body that still obsessed him, so that even a newly qualified psychiatrist could have diagnosed that what he loved most about Rhea was her 'potential' rather than what was actually on offer.  He was simply one more victim to the charms of the 'unattainable goddess syndrome'.  But to fall for someone as erotic as Sophie was perhaps too ironic, being such a ludicrous contrast.  </div> <div> Again lovemaking was the antidote to stress. Again it was fun, as well as physically and mentally cathartic.  And so, no matter how confused Theo was before meeting Sophie, his growing feelings of guilt meant that he soon became even more so.  For one thing, his affair with Sophie had done nothing to cure his problem with Rhia. </div> <div> One night, thinking it the fairest and best thing to do, he did a stupid thing. He told Rhia all about his affair.  After that, life followed its inevitable course: months of quarrelling and recriminations, days of silence, dinners thrown at walls, bouts of drunkenness, etc..  For, despite his impotency, Rhia was determined to hold on to her marriage, while Theo was equally sure he was unable to live without sex again.   </div> <bR> <div> Today, he'd crawled from bed after Rhea left the house.  After relieving himself, he'd stood naked and sad at the open window from which the couple enjoyed priceless views of Hampstead Heath - no matter the mortgage consumed half their income and the view was best seen standing with legs astride the WC, for it was the price one paid for views in Hampstead. </div> <div> Without a moment's peace in many months, every moment spent trying to decide which woman to choose, he was in his darkest mood ever.  So much had happened.  And, especially after last night, it was all still a total mess.  </div> <div> He gazed vacantly at the new-mantled oaks and chestnuts which in spring and summer obscured his view of Parliament Hill, sadistically re-living the darkest moments of the past two years, until something - perhaps a bird, or squirrel - darted in the branches of a nearest tree.  Whatever it was, he was brought sharply back to the present moment.  It was then he suddenly realised that every miracle of April and May had somehow arrived unseen this year, and the thought astonished him. He felt ashamed. What on earth had happened to him?</div> <div>  'And now this!' he shouted.  'A ménage à trois!' </div> <div> That was their solution, the three of them under one roof!  He would have two wives! And of course, when he'd refused even to entertain the idea, they'd come back at him with plan B. </div> <div> 'Then you'll have to choose, Theo. We've decided we're not prepared to go on like this any longer. Either of us.' </div> <div> They made it sound so simple. Heads or tails? Soup or fish? Bath or shower? Christ! How could they believe it was that simple?  Had we all gone mad?</div> <div> "No way!" he suddenly screamed. Christ! didn't they even understand the elementary logic of sexual relationships? He didn't expect them to understand he could love them both, but he did assume they had enough sense to recognize that it required more than one persona, two distinct identities. Each was in love with a different man! He'd need to be a mind juggler to hold them both under one roof!  He'd end up losing them both!</div> <div> It was then he jerked open the medicine cabinet. </div> <div> `Aspirin.  Not enough.  Paracetamol?  Uncertain. Hair remover, shaving cream, razor blades.... Razor blades!'</div> <div> Suddenly he was appalled to find himself being very careful in removing the blade from its wrapping!  Here he was, contemplating suicide, yet taking care to remove the blade without injuring himself!  'Absurd! Fucking absurd!' he shouted.  Then he examined it, turned it over, and marvelled how such an insignificant wafer had more power than all the medicines in the world; it had the cure for 'thinking'. </div> <div> But would it be noble? That would depend. Socrates, Brutus, Seneca - they were noble. Well surely these women were better off without him?  That would be noble. They'd know exactly where they stood; could get on with their lives.  He'd be giving them back their lives! Yes, that would be noble. What other alternative was there?</div> <div> There was running.</div> <bR> <bR> <div> He didn't wait for closing time.  On an angry impulse he left the Jolly Sailor with a rollicking 'strip-the-willow' jigging between his ears and the singer's tacit invitation still tweaking his loins. Perhaps she preferred the sullen type. Too bad. On this occasion he'd taken control, left before Jasper could twirl his whiskers and prime the primordial pump. He got into the car, slammed the door shut, then headed up the hill again. </div> <div> Reaching the same spot as before, he jerked the car off the road and drove straight for the cliff.  It was as if the car knew.  He had to fight the wheel every inch as it bucked and lurched over the ground, the edge rapidly approaching.  'So this is it. Just feet away ...  Suddenly, all he could see was moon and stars. </div> <div> `Damn! Oh, damn!'  He'd left no note, no explanation, no last words.  'They'll blame themselves!' </div> <div> The wheels locked immediately.  The car slid to a stop. </div> <div> He fell back into his seat in a cold sweat, slapped the wheel with both hands, and slowly turned everything off.  Again he fell to thinking... thinking... </div> <div> Eventually, he fell asleep.</div> <div> Though he woke several times with memories of his buttocks pressed into a warm belly - it might have been either woman - he slept until the sound of a hundred seagulls finally made sleep impossible.  And it was hard to believe at first.  One very angry seagull was attacking his car, actually holding down a wiper-blade and ripping it to shreds!  So he banged on the windscreen and shouted, `Piss off, you stupid bird!' </div> <div> It did, but not before giving him a hard look, before lifting majestically in the air to float almost motionless over the cliff edge. He studied it closely, felt envious, the way it casually accepted the miracle of flight; its arrogance as it headed the currents, head like an arrowhead between the string and bow of outspread wings, and remembered an unfulfilled ambition. He'd still like to fly; still wanted a glider. Was it something to live for?</div> <div> It was 4.30, and a fine morning; the sun already above the horizon.  And there was myth and magic in Devon.  He'd always felt it.  It drifted down from the moors, was in the air, the red earth, the very stones.  The sea too; it always breathed freedom to him, it was like no other kingdom; the open road to everywhere else on earth.  </div> <div> Suddenly he was a boy again, expecting a puppy, a new bike, a pair of skates.  He felt better, much better. He didn't know why, or how, but putting those miles between himself and London had somehow made a difference. What need of either of them if he could feel this good without them?  The sheer beauty of the morning was a chastisement in itself, and he grinned self-consciously.  After all, there was mystery and beauty in everything when seen through a boy's eyes.  Where did all that wonder go in the adolescent storm?  Before then he'd never needed to know how a cat's eye was made in order to know its beauty.  No, he couldn't die yet, one day he must fly like a bird!</div> <div> A minute later he was stubbing down a winding track thick with shrubs and young birches. It zigzagged, dropping between boulders embedded in the red, blushing soil. His feet crushed essences of thyme and sea campion, and he was filled with long-forgoten wonders as he scurried to the bottom, where the path ended in a secluded horseshoe cove.  The pebble beach fell steeply to a calm, slow-breaking sea.  It was irresistible!  In a moment he was naked, running pell mell to the sea, slithering and sliding down the shifting shingle.  Then he cleaved the water headlong. </div> <div> As his chest skimmed the ocean floor the sound of shifting gravel was loud in his ears, and he felt the cold sea pierce every inch of his flesh with a thousand needles. It felt good, and he ploughed on, swimming far out before turning to tread water and look back at the old town, still fast asleep. </div> <div> To the left, the cliffs rose and fell like a train of pink dinosaurs nose to tail on a morning's stroll to Land's End.  Straight ahead, the old car sat like Rosinante waiting to carry him to the next belligerent windmill.  And why not?  Feeling his nakedness at one with all nature, he clutched his testicles and threw a fist joyfully in the air, screaming, 'Eureka! Bloody eureka!'  Soon, the first lines of a new poem were taking shape in his head.</div> <div> Once dressed, he took a notion to lope to the western end of the cove where a rocky barrier bled into the sea. It looked a good place to explore.  And he found the rock pools and swaying worlds beneath no less filled with beauty than on the day his eyes first encountered them as a boy, still teeming with mysteries he'd mislaid since childhood. In this mood he wandered over one more rock, one more castle, lines of poetry forming in his mind's fancy until, after an hour or so, the thought of tea and lashings of eggs and bacon overrode his muse.  Strong exercise had done the trick.  He had an appetite!</div> <div> Paradoxically, the car was nearer now than when he'd started out at the far end of the beach; in fact, it was just a few hundred feet above him.  Deciding it was an easy climb with plenty of purchases, he set off, his mind still building the poem on a higher plane. Nevertheless, after ten minutes, the fringe of marram grass along the brow came as a welcome sight. </div> <div> Half-buried stones are easily mistaken for jutting rock.  Theo looked at the red-stained oval in his hand, thought of a dinosaur's egg, teetered backwards and forwards for a moment or two, hands darting left and right, knees making vain attempts to grip the cliff wall, then surrendered; calmly.  With a sigh, he turned around, looked down at the place where he was to die, stretched his arms wide, then appeared to hover for an nstant, as though flying without wings.</div> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <B>End</B></div> <bR> <div> <A HREF="id61.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE=" selection of Short Stories"><U><B>Return to index</B></U></A></div> <bR> <div> <A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="stan hedges homepage"><U><B>Homepage</B></U></A></div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <div> Copyright is reserved on all personal creative material, which may not be copied for redistribution to third parties without prior written consent. </div> <div> ©<FONT SIZE="1" COLOR="#A6CAF0" FACE="Times New Roman" > S.T. 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