Icarus

I'm cruising at 50,000 feet, propelled by laboratory-forged pterodactyl wings, the earth nothing more than a blue and green cat's eye marble below. I climb into the stratosphere, higher and higher. I've never felt farther from the sun.

I was assembled in a Petri dish. Vein-infested wings sprout from my shoulder blades, stretching 12 feet in each direction. My respiratory system more fighter jet than human, high altitudes offer no obstacle. I am the first of my kind. I am the only of my kind.

The boon-turned-curse of flight has no patience for walking. I never strolled through the park, I never danced with a girl at a party, I never waited in line for a movie on opening night. I was always above. My legs are useless with atrophy. Even as I soar, they dangle sadly like a marionette's wooden limbs.

Birds are my closest companions. Though their chainsaw squawks declare that I am not welcome in their flocks, I find I have more in common with these plumed aviators than I do with the creatures on the ground. My one-man flock migrates from town to town, never calling any place home.

And I suppose even an anti-hero needs a catchphrase: Never fly before you walk.