And so he walked through the rain, his once transparent wings, once quite capable of lifting him off the ground, wet against his back and his thighs, cold and heavy, worn like a cloak of grey. And he knew already what they’d tell him. Oh yes, he knew all too well, and so he walked through the rain, his eyes in no way concerned with the world passing him by.
‘I’m sorry, Never-Never Land shut down, Narnia is closed, Fantasia down in the dumps. Nothing I can do, really, pretty boy. No more stories for you. But listen, why don’t you cut off those wings once and for all? I know you’ve had them since always but they’re really no good in the rain and there’s no future in wings whatsoever. You’ll have to give up on them, look for something different. Maybe you could do something with money, a bank job. I don’t know.’
Oh, he knew what they’d say, yes, he knew, and he walked through the rain. With each step, he felt like another dying world of weariness, a shooting star, and people would make wishes he couldn’t fulfill. And he kept walking.
‘You have to admit you’re a bit dated, handsome. What do you expect me to do? It’s not like I’m the master of the wheel of time or the gatekeeper of dreams. You know that, you really do. I have nothing for you, no one lives happily ever after anymore, I can do as little about it as you.’
The rain fell hard and he knew what they’d say. He’d heard it before, it was eternity, and he’d never get the hang of it.
Copyright: Ras Bolding 2003