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    Flight! (and other stories)
    Flight! (and other stories)
    Flight! (and other stories)
    Ebook108 pages1 hour

    Flight! (and other stories)

    By André Ferero

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    About this ebook

    Enter a world of magic and possibilities, where the border between fiction and reality becomes blurred, and real life blends into the world of imagination and dreams. This volume includes Flight!, The Magic Pen and A's Story – stories that remind us why we read and why we need to create new tales.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAndré Ferero
    Release dateMay 19, 2011
    ISBN9781458105745
    Flight! (and other stories)
    Author

    André Ferero

    André Ferero is a South African writer who has been living in France since July 2006. Even though his love for Africa hasn't diminished during that time, he is not complaining about living in the kingdom (well, Republic) of food and wine.His interests include photography, reading, (good) movies, hiking, wine tasting, traveling and trying to figure out this experience called life. Music is one of his biggest loves and he listens to almost anything, from old to new.He writes as often as possible. He describes his fiction as speculative, with a focus on the characters in possible futures. He has also just finished a South African guidebook that is different from all other guidebooks on the topic and will be very helpful to travelers who want to plan their own trip to Southern Africa.

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      Book preview

      Flight! (and other stories) - André Ferero

      Flight!

      (and other stories)

      by André Ferero

      Published by Ferrero Books at Smashwords

      Copyright 2011, André Ferero

      Smashwords Edition, License Notes:

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords at: http://www.smashwords.com/ and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      Contents:

      1.Flight!

      2.The Magic Pen

      3.A's Story

      Flight!

      Prologue:

      From somewhere, I hear the sound. It is ceaseless, like the monotonous droning of a mosquito. The noise isn't constant. It is there, then it disappears, there, gone – a continuous switch between buzzing and silence.

      My brain still swims exhaustedly in an ocean of sleep, searching for my body, something tangible. When my mind hears the persistent noise, it warily opens its eyes and blinks a few times. In the distance it sees a bright light, a welcoming sun, an awakening searchlight.

      But my brain is unwilling to wake up and shakes its head.

      No, not now, it's too early, it wants to say, but can't find a mouth and voice and thinks it instead. It closes its eyes and prepares to drift back to sleep.

      The sound reaches my brain again, more intense.

      Lazily Leftbrain opens his eyelids, then Rightbrain opens his, just to close it immediately again. Left tries one more time, elbowing Right until he becomes annoyed. He angrily asks: What is it now, Left?

      I think something is trying to wake us up, Leftlobe says anxiously.

      Why are you telling me this? Rightbrain asks impatiently.

      Because we are together.

      Together?

      Yes, if I wake up, you must also wake up.

      Not necessarily. Remember, I'm the creative side. You know how seldom they use me, Right says despondently.

      Not today. Something is going to happen, Left says excitedly.

      Do you think so?

      Yes.

      Left and Right look at each other, smile, then swim to the surface.

      On a place that resembles a beach, they find the body they had been looking for. It's rolling from one side to the other, as if it's fighting with something.

      Chapter 1: Awake, it's morning!

      I bring my hand down hard on the alarm clock. A strange silence follows, causing me to move around in bed so the springs can make a noise to convince me I haven't gone deaf during the night.

      Chir, chir, the bed says, assuring me that everything is still all right with my hearing.

      From outside my small apartment I can only hear silence. It is still too early, the world isn't aware that day has arrived yet.

      On the bedside table the clock says 6:03 with its red electrical eyes. With a sigh I sit up in bed.

      That was the last late night ever, I think, feeling a light headache knocking on the door of my head. After a few moments I start coughing, reminding me of that last Camel I smoked. One of these days I must stop smoking, it flashes through my head, but before the thought becomes concrete, it vanishes behind a cloud of smog.

      I get up and stagger to the hi-fi. When I switch it on, The Mamas and The Papas sing: Monday, Monday, you can't trust that day. My involuntary smile only stays for a few moments, until it comprehends that it's really Monday.

      The room also looks tired, but it knows it can carry on sleeping once I've left. It is empty. Just a bed, a hi-fi, a cupboard and a desk with a chair in the one corner. Before the windows there are no curtains.

      Outside, crazed gusts of wind start shaking the trees, bending them violently. The first rays of sun touch the roofs, instantly giving birth to a new day in the city. An ambulance siren screams from somewhere down the street and the rat race begins again.

      I turn away from the window, to the desk where the novel lies. It looks small, insignificant, as if nothing is happening on the pages, as if the words are only words, too weak to ever have a life of their own. Some of the words had died in childbirth, others are survivors who had lost interest in life. All of them are words without anything important to say, wallowing in eternal silence.

      The novel pretends not to see me. But I know it stares, trying to tell me something, too scared to even utter a sound. Read me, it wants to plead, but isn't brave enough.

      Quickly I avert my eyes, unable to clear all thoughts of the novel from my mind. Deliberately I walk to the bathroom. After a shower I get dressed, then walk to the window and open it. The wind has not stopped blowing.

      I breathe deeply. Monday morning's first lungs full of city air smells good. A small part of polluted heaven here in the heart of the city. Soon the gusts will blow the pollution out of town into the awaiting countryside, clearing the city sky.

      In the miniature kitchen I smell the milk before pouring it over my Frosties. Milk has a gift of turning sour in this kitchen, even if it's kept in the refrigerator.

      The Frosties taste good where I sit eating at my desk. They swim in the milk, dive down, then reappear for air. So early in the morning and they seem so satisfied, even knowing they would be eaten soon. Maybe that's their only way of escaping. I take another mouthful, wondering how much I would still have to eat before feeling full.

      From the bowl, filled with cereal and milk, I look up. Against the wall a black and white poster of the Statue of Liberty hangs. It says good morning without moving.

      In the poster, which is called Liberty Lost, Liberty stands in a desert. The statue doesn't look perturbed to be surrounded by so much sand, as if she isn't bothered by being lost.

      I return my attention to the food, eating some more, before my eyes stray back to the novel on the desk. It lies to one side, totally discarded. While I watch it, severe feelings of guilt take hold of me. I want to make a promise to the novel that I will read it somewhere in the future, in a faraway country, but keep my thoughts locked away.

      As I get up, a sudden gust of wind blows in through the window. It opens the novel, reading its pages one by one. I turn my gaze from the book, but something prevents me. The novel draws my eyes to it, forcing me not to tear it away.

      The pages stop fluttering, allowing me to glimpse one word. I try to read it, but it slips away. Still, I'm unable to free myself from the feeling the word leaves behind. I know only that one word is necessary to catch me. The novel also knows it and starts pulling me closer.

      This force from the novel doesn't want to let me go. While I try to fight it, there is movement in my writing hand, an impulse to give life to words on paper. But, my reluctance inhibits the impulse.

      Then, from within the struggle, something grabs hold of me. At first it only holds my body, but gradually it tries to enter my soul.

      I scream, attempting to hit those unseen hands away from me, when everything becomes vague. For moments all the familiar things around me become blurred.

      Then, everything changes back to its original shape. Again, I am in my room, which is still simple and honest. But, from somewhere the word returns, forcing me back to that other world.

      Monday, Monday, can't trust that day.

      It pulls me closer, until I lose control. Still, I can't see the word. Every time I

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