A Flying Person

While sitting comfortably in the middle of my writing class, an incredible air stream surrounds me and transparent pebbles begin crisscrossing. At anyone time they would come. It feels like now. The air makes a cushion underneath and lifts my chair off the ground by just an inch, hovering awhile until the calling is fully-ripe, when my chair and I ascend slowly like a soap bubble, my head making for the roof, disregarding the material, I penetrate through.

As I ascend above the building, I look down and find no hole in the roof. Yes, I think to myself, all the while sedentary, calm and upright, my arms extend before me, palms on my knees, thighs parallel to the ground, for what, dear heaven, have I to fear? If they are so confident in me to choose me out of the millions, I have no doubt to trust them, with all my being.

A little man walking out of a coffee shop looks up in the sky, his feet parted to grip the ground, barely balancing himself, points at the sky, "A flying person!" He hollers and hides his head in his hands in horror. As I brush through the morning sky, fingers point at me, most of them hysteric, dumbfounded, but on one occasion I see an old man with his right hand above his eyebrows in a gesture of distant observation and salute. "Yes," he says to himself, "he's seeing the light."