THEME: FLYING
Entry: Free
Prize: £100
We gave the members of The Globe Soup Members-Only Group the task of writing 100 words on the theme: FLYING.
In no particular order, the following entries are Globe Soup’s top picks.
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Full Moon
By Felipe Orlans
Her face was pale in the dim overhead light, but I could see the sparkle of excitement in her eyes.
“You’ll love it, I promise.”
We stood in the doorway, buffeted by the wind. The sun had already set when we took off, but at this altitude the western sky was ablaze with colour.
One step, into the void, and we were falling, into the darkness, the full moon rising, huge, deep yellow.
We landed, soft as snowflakes.
I hit the release on our harness and she turned to face me.
“And…?”
A deep, shuddering breath.
“We were flying!”
The Angel’s Leap
By Jo Bland
Lying down,
yet flying high like an acrobat
in a Fentanyl dream
suspended
over England's pastures green
God save the Queen!
Show me
The hills and the valleys below,
a quilt stitched with hedgerows, embellished with sheep;
the cry
of swooping gulls over the White Cliffs of Dover
the swell, the smell
of the sea
one last time.
A trapeze artist in tights
dimming the lights
takes my hand
Let go
Let go and fly
It's the end of the show
she says
and I nod that I know
this circus is nearly over.
It's time to die.
The World from Afar
By Mikaela Brown
She spread her wings. The ground loomed beneath her. Children played—some together, some alone. Adults sat, finishing bills, scrolling phones.
She soared higher, gasping as the wind stole her breath. The people were so small. Cities divided into perfect squares. In painted lines, cars dawdled or raced. What did they live for? What were they chasing?
Urging the wind to carry her farther, she broke through the clouds. She couldn’t breathe, but she could see. Her earth was an Impressionist painting. She didn’t want to return. Perhaps she would become the wind, the flying guardian of the sacred planet.
Impostor Syndrome
By Anne Marsh
Her rise to fame had been meteoric, the girl from Croydon made good. She however, waited to be found out. She rested back in her seat as the plane took off. Centuries of science and human striving came together in a moment of lift. Down below she caught the V–shape of a flock of wild geese emerging from the tufts of cloud. Millions of years of evolution encapsulated in this group exodus. Suddenly she realised it was too quiet. Black smoke blocked the view. She just had time to understand she was now falling not flying.
Chicken
By Bean Sawyer
Perched on top of the near vertical slope, bike between his legs, Fergus wiped his brow. Below, the Barrie brothers were flapping their arms, taunting him with chicken noises. Eyes narrowed; Fergus launched himself into the unknown. Wind whistled over his face, set in sheer determination. He imagined a pair of wings sprouting from his shoulder blades, lifting him over the heads of the open-mouthed bullies. They looked so small; he could pluck one up and drop him in the loch.
He fell to earth at their feet. Bike buckled, knees bleeding. A lone feather floating down from the sky.
The Tragedy of Gravity
By Joel O'Flaherty
It is a lightness she hasn’t felt in months.
The wind washing her clean like a lapping wave.
The weight of the world: a heavy, unending lassitude that crushed the fight from her lungs, pressed the soul from her veins. The dark thoughts: sharp spoons that hollowed her bones, until they resembled a bird’s, empty inside. All of it, gone, with a single step.
And for a few brief moments, for these last heartbeats between the ledge and the pavement, she soars.
A premature angel. Winged, before her time.
After all, isn’t flying a matter of perspective?
First Flight
By Kay Lesley Reeves
Flying is not as easy as it looks. As a very junior witch I straddled my broomstick with trepidation.
Running downhill seemed like a good way to get airborne. Perhaps Mam Tor was a bit over-ambitious. Unable to stop, I hurtled over the sheer drop.
Imagine the shock of the hang-glider as I landed on his canopy. He descended, more or less under control, and landed in a field full of rather surprised sheep.
Red-faced I straightened my hat and tucked the broomstick under my arm.
A large crow soared above me. I swear it was laughing.
The Salmon Return
By Caroline Jenner
In swirling whorls and eddies, rippling ribbons of glass descend in pearly puffs of spume. Swaddled in beanies and mittens, protection against the chill of an early November morning, shutterbugs silently sit: cameras poised; eyes peeled. And then they appear. Silver tourists, king of the fish, leaping and dancing through the air in a slither of morning sunlight, silver bellies flashing as they crest the cascade of shimmering droplets. Amidst the click and whirr of shutters, they ascend skyward, their inner compass pushing them onwards, instinctively seeking the safety of their spawning grounds.
Above The Clouds
By Séimí Mac Aindreasa
The clouds are a cracked-ice mosaic of white-tiered tiles below us.
Ice crystalises on every strut and bearing, the wind howling against every angle.
Flying at this altitude, I see to the end of the world. For someone.
The never-ending static in my earphones cuts abruptly to the squawk box of the navigator, just as the town comes into view.
The plane shudders and gives a reluctant groan, doors opening against airspeed and pressure.
I fix my eye to lens, confirm, then press the release.
Success.
We head towards home.
From our lofty heights, we never hear the screams.
Fight-or-Flight
By Anika Hazra
The passenger seated next to me grips her armrests with tensed, curled fingers.
I turn to her and say, “You’re safe on this plane. Nothing to worry about.”
“I know. I just can’t die right now.”
“Isn’t it a bit early to be thinking about that? You’re very young.”
Surprisingly, she brightens. “I’ve only just figured out what I want to do with my life. Everything is going to change for me when I get off this plane. I have too much to lose.”
I turn to look out the window. I wonder why I’m not the least bit afraid.
The group chose ‘Above The Clouds’ as their winner! Congratulations, Séimí Mac Aindreasa!
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