First came the birds, flapping in the same futile way I do when I swim—unable to make headway against the inexorable pull of a strange, incomprehensible physics. I ached to help them, but my manager screeched at me, gesturing toward a lineup of customers who couldn’t serve themselves. The birds couldn’t help themselves either, and unlike my classmate James they didn’t have jobs or rich parents, no money to draw people’s attention.
After the birds fell, the whoosh of fuselage through clouds heralded the plummeting airplanes. Unlike their feathered cousins, these loud metal birds roused people to action, even making a rubber-necking spectator out of my manager. The customers trailed into the road after him, and my shuffling feet now echoed through the store as if it were a museum on a sunny Tuesday afternoon. As much as I wanted to, I hesitated to follow my manager outside, for his favorite adage—one shared with my father—whispered in my ear: “Do as I say, not as I do.”
Next came the raindrops, holding hands in neat formation, dragged from their cloudy homes before they were ready. Their cries on the pavement stirred my heart, because I, too, never felt ready—certainly not ready for the sky’s antics today or I would have skipped this horrid shift and held hands with my family too. When customers returned to the store, seeking shelter, I went looking for my manager in hopes I’d glimpse a toppling rainbow slicing through him.
Instead, I was greeted by the cool touch of descending clouds, demoted from their lofty perch. I recalled how James had gushed on and on about flying amongst the clouds, in business class no less, and now maybe I would experience that too. James had a nice smile and arm muscles that reflected his summers spent on his uncle’s farm. But, even though he had promised to work this job with me, he spent his time chasing Jenny, whose gorgeous nails attracted magpies and boys alike. In this dreamlike world, fine droplets obscured all the nice smiles, strong arms, and expensive nails, and who’s to say it’s not better off this way?
The sky compressed around my feet and my head finally pierced through the clouds as the air rarefied, transforming Earth into a spaceship, the vastness of our galaxy hurtling past me. The forgotten five-year-old within me cheered, as my astronaut dreams escaped from under the heel of my father and careened into the unknown. The vanishing oxygen didn’t bother me, for we had all—me and James and even Jenny—become equally tiny under the stars.
Ian Li (he/him) is a Chinese-Canadian economist, developer, writer, and poet, who started writing in late 2023 after a lifetime of believing he could never be creative. He also enjoys spreadsheets, statistical curiosities, and brain teasers. Find his work published in Nightmare Magazine, Small Wonders, and Strange Horizons, among other venues.
Header photography and artwork by Jordan Keller-Wilson
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