'Wings' by Hugh Behm-Steinberg

Things weren’t really bad, people kept saying; others remained quiet and wouldn’t talk about where they had been, what they had seen. We tried not to dwell on what we did each day. Someone would nod where the gas station used to be, or point at the long-shuttered post office, like it signified something other than the obvious, but there was also music and children running around playing make-believe, like that signified something better.

There were unfinished projects where entire blocks once stood, but sometimes I’d see people flitting above us wearing artificial wings. They’d sing and also throw money, money that flickered and became worthless as it fell. 

I was with my brother. We often discussed the flying people. He said, “When I’d see them I’d feel lonely, because I think they imagined those of us down here were supposed to feel lonely. I thought that what I needed to feel less lonely was to get some wings myself, be one of those up there people, so I yelled at them until someone gave me the address of where I was supposed to go.

“I went to the address. I waited in a line which stretched around the building three times. But we were all patient and cheerful, because where else were we going to go? Either another line somewhere even worse, or stay at home where nothing was guaranteed? 

“We chatted, told stories and jokes about what we would do once we were able to fly. We even held one another’s places so that we could run off to the bathroom or get something to eat. We shared what we had, what we could. 

“Of course, they were out of wings that day.

“But you can bear anything,” he said, “if you know you’re not alone.”

 

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Hugh Behm-Steinberg’s prose can be found in X-Ray, Grimoire, Ergot, Heavy Feather Review and The Offing. His short story "Taylor Swift" won the Barthelme Prize from Gulf Coast. A collection of prose poems and microfiction, Animal Children, was published by Nomadic/Black Lawrence Press. He lives in Barcelona.