# THE INCREDIBLE FLIGHT OF BIRDMAN

by
Nicholas Osbourne

Ostrich was a philosophical person, but of all the things he considered, he was himself his most common subject. He was the staple of his own thought. Who am I? What am I? When am I? Where am I? His questions were varied, and so were his answers, but they almost always shared the same undercurrent of negativity and sense of utter hopelessness. Occasionally, his self-doubt gave way to fleeting suspicions of potential and potency � of intelligence and power � but they were only ever short-lived. He shifted between feeling he was above, and feeling he was below, those around him. But he could never commit himself to one or the other.

~

This morning, draped over his desk like a wet towel, Ostrich entered into the same dialogue, with himself, about himself. It was paralysing. He had been at work for half an hour, yet he had done nothing except sit there and stare into the illimitable depths of his computer screen, which he had yet to turn on. He felt restless, and needed to relax, so he reached beneath the desk for his shoes, untied them as he always did, and then brushed the feathers from his arms. As much as he tried to hide it, that plumage managed to get everywhere, and he looked around nervously as he concealed the ruffled rectrices beneath his desk. Still, he felt better, his feet able to breathe, and so continued to mull over his existence, looking ever inward. He found himself mapping the dilemma with unfamiliar ease, considering all angles, and with more conviction than normal, and was certain that at last he had found an answer.

�I�m worthless,� he announced, turning a few heads.

Yes, it was conclusive. He was utterly without value. He could understand it now. In many respects it was a shame, but not without consolation. The death of confusion � of those painful vacillations between the great and the gutter � was of considerable comfort to him. Overall, he felt relieved.

He peeled his head from his desk and surveyed the office that he shared with countless other people, enjoying his new clarity. There were distinct advantages to being less than ordinary. There was no burden of genius, no expectation, no guilt. The daily buckling under the weight of thought and the infernal depths of profundity would no longer afflict him. They had been nothing more than mistaken feelings. The delusions of an idiot.

He watched his colleagues, feeling kinship for the first time.

And then�

�Ostrich?�

The voice startled him. He had been observing the far reaches of the office and, in doing so, had failed to notice the person standing opposite him, leaning over his desk.

It was his boss.

He raised his brows and widened his eyes in acknowledgement.

�Your report was sensational,� he declared, brimming with reverence and enthusiasm. �Masterful,� he added, having struggled momentarily to summon a word that did the work sufficient justice.

�Really?�

�Yes, really,� he affirmed, smiling and anticipating a smile in return.

But one was not forthcoming.

His boss was mystified by the apparent disappointment of his colleague, but his face showed genuine concern.

�Are you OK?�

There was no answer.

�Oz�?�

�No, David, I�m not OK.�

Ostrich was sick of the way life continually debunked his identity. No sooner was it fixed then it was once again broken. Evidently, he was not less than ordinary; quite possibly, he was not ordinary at all. His conclusion, however right it may have seemed a few moments ago, had been wrong. But the time had come to align himself to one of two opposing camps, of this much he was still sure. This morning he had committed to one, only to suffer rejection, so perhaps he should try the other. He dared to dream again. Could he, by some twist of fate, be special? He needed immediate proof � some kind of test. What could he do?

From under his desk he pulled a huge pair of wings, replete with white feathers and sealed with beeswax. They were the result of years of furtive labour. He had sacrificed every lunch time of his tenure to climb the old stairs of the building and gather the largest feathers he could from the roof, bringing them down to the office in time to hide them under his desk before anyone returned.

�The wings,� his boss gasped.

Ostrich stalled.

�What do you mean �the wings�?� he asked, taken aback by the man�s evident familiarity with his handiwork.

�We knew you had them.� He motioned to everyone in the office. �All of us. It was the cleaners.�

�Damn those cleaners,� Ostrich cursed under his breath. He had often suspected that his wings had been frisked. He checked them every morning.

Looking around, he saw the entire office gawking at him.

As he made his way towards the big window, his colleagues politely moved out of his way, as if they were spectators at a pageant, or guests at a wedding ceremony, his wings brushing the floor like a bridal train. As he drew closer, they all fell into line, forming flanks like colonnades along the pathway to his point of departure, like caryatids, perhaps, willing to share in his burden.

The atmosphere of the office soon changed from relative silence to feverish din, pitched at a level close to hysteria.

Through the noise, one voice stood out, but not because it was the loudest.

�Ostrich?�

It was a girl who for years he had intended to ask out, but had never found the courage.

�You don�t have to do this,� she pleaded, just within earshot. �Why are you going through with this?�

He searched the depths of his soul for an answer that was memorable, meaningful, poignant, or impressive.

There was nothing.

He climbed onto the ledge of the already open window, careful to accommodate his ten foot wingspan. He had designed them so that the hinges of his wings mimicked the joints of his own wrists and elbows, enabling him to fold them around his body and minimise his spread by way of perching. Like this, he crouched on the edge of the window, a drop in excess of two hundred feet stretching out below him, and waited patiently for favourable winds, extending the tips of his feathers so he could feel the first draughts of air run over them.

Without warning, and in one seemingly practised motion, he lunged forward and was immediately swept upwards, as if snatched by an invisible hand. Everyone in the office � even Ostrich himself � had expected an initial plunge, at least until his wings were outstretched. But this was not the case. He was now more than just a pair of wings.

As the wind dragged him up, receptive to the rhythmic flapping of his arms, Ostrich craned his neck so he could, for the last time, see the high-rise he had recently vacated. Even after a few minutes it was difficult to be completely certain of the building, such was its likeness to the others. After another glance he forgot about the world of steel and glass that lay beneath him and was able to give himself entirely to the job of staying airborne long enough to reach the sun.

Flying was not, however, a simple case of beating the air and gliding along channels of wind. For one thing, there was far more going on up in the sky than could possibly be seen from the ground. Ostrich found that most of his concentration was spent steering from the path of oncoming traffic. He encountered every variety of bird and, such was their orderliness, he felt sure there were agreed road systems in the sky. He may well have run any number of red lights, and his flight was not without its share of collisions. He just hoped that most of the birds he hit had managed to regain their stroke. Nonetheless, he continued on his course, his wings creaking under the stress, his arms aching with fatigue, but his body stubborn, and the beeswax still impervious to the rays of the sun.

And yet, after a while, complacency got the better of him. By now he was so high that he was certain he had passed through the biosphere and so naturally began to relax his guard. But he had forgotten about those great metal birds, the carriers of men.

Out of nowhere the giant beak of an aeroplane stared him in the face, its eyes drawn close in an expression of menace. He twisted to the left in a brilliant display of reflex, but the sudden sharpness of his movement caused the frame of his wings to tear from their straps, and as he was thrown over the wing of the plane, his own were sucked into the engine.

For a few seconds he thrashed around with his wingless arms, trying his best to tread air, expecting at any moment to plummet to his doom. But the fall never came. To his astonishment, his ability to fly was not affected by the loss of his wings. He turned to see the plane chugging, the engine seemingly on fire. Oh well, it has other engines, he thought, consoling himself.

And so he continued on, towards his destiny, and as he crashed into the burning star, Ostrich could not help but smile at his triumph.

� Nicholas Osbourne
Reproduced with permission

---

Your first name:	Your URL:
Use the box below to leave messages for Nick. Begin Message: For Nicholas Osbourne