Written by Atticus Payne
Art by William Blake
We humans, all so tastelessly mortal. Dropped onto cliffs hugged by ravines, a cord around the neck our only harness, frantic fingers; opposable, fragile thumbs, gripping, slipping, holding on ‘til we fall.
No landing kills you—just your own porous bones.
One by one, I watch them lose their hold. Fingers with skin worn ‘til only bone shows, others more torn by their eyes and not the stones. One by one, I watch them die, hear them cry, shake most from anger in their last sigh as they try so much to stay alive, while next to them, another ihminen falls.
I’ve seen some try to climb—upwards, in a game of chasing the rain. The air thins that far above; presses down on the chest ‘til ribs crack, ‘til you can’t catch your breath. “Searching,” they say. “For what?” I reply.
Then, again, I watch them die.
They crumple from the shivers, so easily that for a moment you could forgive yourself the thought that they’d gone and done; that this was their climax.
It’s just death. Just as futile as the rest.
So I stand and wait and lock my muscles as best I can. It’s useless, I swear. All it does is make you stare at the gasp of the gallows and wonder if you’re next. I stand, and wait, and watch, and pray; for mercy, for control, for anything to end it all. Slowly, I lessen the pleas. Just gouge my eyes out.
Words get swept by the wind.
Ihminen. Human. Frail, and unmade for this plane.
Unknot the cord, step off the ledge. What end is there if you can’t see it?
Should I die, I will have earned it.
Have flown, for a second, and not cared.