Fiction logo

D r e a m E c h o

A Bird's Eye View of Deforestation

By JustinPublished 2 years ago Updated 2 years ago 15 min read
Top Story - November 2021
126
'The Ledge', original art by the author, Justin Keeling

The Ledge

This is the last time I’ll jump off this cliff. My hands are still as I approach the ledge and close my eyes to meditate on oblivion.

A minute passes while the wind washes up the mountainside to caress my face and jaw, a wave of air breaking on the cliff. The scent of cantua flowers scatters around me.

My mind is blank with grief.

I review my glide path: go straight, follow the bend, take a left at the split, and don’t land in the water. The split is the most dangerous obstacle because of its narrowness—only twelve feet across on either side. The right shrinks even further. Three feet across. Amy and I nicknamed the left path the Valley of Hope because if you miss it, you’re a goner. I’ve since named the right path the Canyon of Sorrow.

Opening my eyes, I check my harness and the folds of my crimson wingsuit for defects. I go through the motions but I know there’s no guarantee of safety in wingsuit gliding. That is true of life, too. I could die in a car crash tomorrow. Since it’s out of my control, I try not to worry about the future. Instead, I live in the moment.

Now, I’ve come back for one last flight—no matter the risk.

The forest below is lush and green for now though not for long, judging by the logging trucks I saw on my way up the mountain. The cacophony of distant saws fades as I put in my earplugs. This forest will be barren soon and the species that live here will be exiled, captured, or killed. Still, for now, this mountainside is green and lush.

'Souvenir' original art by the author, Justin Keeling

It reminds me of when I visited Amy while she was abroad in Peru, studying the scarlet macaw. Every once in a while she’d mail me a feather that she’d found in the rainforest during her field lectures.

I take a step closer to the ledge.

“Let’s go skydiving for your birthday,” I say five years ago while kicking off my muddy boots on Amy’s porch after a hike. Her eyes light up as she tosses her pack on a chair by the bed.

“Yes!” she blurts out while hugging my shoulders from behind.

Two days later, we strap ourselves to diving instructors fourteen thousand feet up. Vertigo claps me in the head as the cargo door opens and I lose control of my legs, slouching backward onto my guide. Amy laughs as she and her teacher bounce out of the plane and spread-eagle into the open sky.

My guide and I follow suit. The noise is louder than if television static were played in a movie theater. The earplugs help but nothing can block it out entirely. We release our chutes and, in an instant, the world falls silent as we slowly drift to the landing zone.

“That was amazing!” Amy yells to me as I emerge from the folds of my parachute after we land. “Best birthday present ever! Let’s do it again.”

Amy and I get certified for solo dives in time for the holidays.

Four Thanksgivings later, we take it to the next level: wingsuit gliding. Wingsuit certification requires two-hundred individual skydiving free-falls as a prerequisite. It’s an investment but we are dedicated. We become birds, soaring through the sky. Limitless. Unrestrained. Free.

Suddenly, on the ledge where Amy and I made our first base jump, the urge possesses me. My blood hums through my veins and I know the universe is telling me to go. It is my time.

I jump.

'The Bend' original art by the author, Justin Keeling

The Rush

The wind pours through me. It flows into my forehead, past my neck, shoulders—collecting every ounce of anxiety with it—cascading down my back, past my hips, legs—clearing out my nerves—until it empties from my feet. Then, the rush catches my outspread limbs like a truck and I am flying.

There’s a company of scarlet macaws flying below, a shock of red against the viridian forest. We share these skies, for now.

Carving through the air, I imagine myself as one of them. A scarlet macaw can live up to fifty years in the wild or ninety years in captivity. That’s twice as long as most gliders.

“This is more dangerous than skydiving,” Amy says as she peers over the cliff before our first wingsuit dive.

“Yeah,” I admit, ”I’m a bit nervous about jumping without a backup parachute.”

“Totally. You’re not going to collapse again, are you?” she teases.

“No way,” I say defiantly, “I’ve come a long way since then. I’d wager that I’m a better flier than you now.”

Her half-cocked eyebrow says ‘we’ll see about that.’

'The Rush' original art by the author, Justin Keeling

I rest on a deafening wall of air and keep a steady gaze on my destination. I lost all trepidation about flying a year ago.

It’s common for gliders to die in flight. They misread the current or terrain, misjudge their speed, take risks, and crash. Tree, cliff, or powerline—at the speed we fly, we’re goners. They say those who fly regularly will die in flight. It’s an inevitability.

I close my eyes and lose myself in the sensation of the mist cascading past my face—only for a moment… Two moments… Emptiness washes over me as I rocket through the gorge. Slowly, I open my eyes.

Entering the bend, I tilt my body to the side and feel the air push around me, guiding me through the valley around the mountain. I am synchronized with the world, the atmosphere.

The scarlet macaw mates for life. Likewise, many gliders prefer to jump with a partner—not that anyone could help if something goes wrong. But the survivor can inform the family of their loss, at least.

I still feel the shame of telling Amy’s family.

But I don’t stop jumping. How could I? It is ingrained in me, like driving. Giving up flying would be like quitting drinking and eating meat, cold turkey. I can’t. This is how I know I am still alive.

This is how I feel close to Amy.

I crave the rush.

'The Split' original art by the author, Justin Keeling

The Split

As I round the bend, the air thickens into a billowing wall of grey. Where did this smoke come from? The loggers? Slash and burn? Already? Shit.

I’ll lose visibility in the smoke. Only seconds to think, to choose: glide through and risk high-speed collision or deploy my chute and wait through the fumes. How long until—no time.

I look right and pull the pilot chord on my parachute.

There is a momentary pause as the pilot chute pulls the canopy out of my pack. I go from one hundred miles an hour to ten miles an hour as the rushing wind catches the canopy and I float into the swirling sable.

Coughing, I try to veer to the side—to land early—but the hot smoke carries me upward, fast. I can’t breathe. The smoke stings my nose and mouth, singeing my gums.

I’m falling. I can hardly see my parachute through the black inferno—staining my goggles and cauterizing my nostrils—but I can see the chords are flailing, soot smothered, smoldering. Fuck.

My parachute is on fire!

My body turns itself inside out with coughing. My heart is a battering ram in my chest. Panic melts my brain. I’m falling fast. Too fast. My altimeter explodes in my ears, louder than a smoke alarm. I taste my sweat mixed with bitter ash. I’m going to die. I know it. I’m going to die.

I remember the moment it happened—when Amy died. It is a year ago and we are rounding the bend. She loses control at the split. She careens to the right, instead. I wait at the other side, in disbelief—hoping until hope dies.

I cutaway from my chute and let it drift on the black gusts. A whirlpool inhales me, sending me tumbling, spiraling.

I close my eyes. Nothing matters at this moment. I can’t see a way through this. I want to keep my eyes closed forever. I don’t want to see what is going to happen. I want to be safe on the ground. I don’t want to feel alive. I want to be alive!

I straighten my arms and legs together and enter a speed dive towards where I hope the ocean is.

I just need to get out of the heat so I can use my wings, but until then I’m fucked. I could hit a tree. I could hit the split. My altimeter’s second alarm goes off but I barely hear it. The air is louder than an airplane, louder than a train wreck.

Why is this happening? Why are they destroying the forest? Why are they killing me?

'The Balcony, The Night Before' original art by the author, Justin Keeling

“Hey, don’t you think these trips are getting to be a little extravagant?” Amy asks me as she puts on her shirt and joins me on the balcony the night before her last dive. She is in graduate school now for environmental studies. “I mean, doesn’t it seem a bit selfish?”

“What do you mean?” I ask. “I thought you loved flying with the birds.”

“I do. I really do,” she says while habitually picking at a blemish on my shoulder. “It’s just that I love the birds too and these trips aren’t exactly eco-friendly.”

“Lots of people travel, though,” I counter, “It’s just one of those things we have to accept, isn’t it?”

“People do, yeah, but not everyone charters two hundred flights just to jump out of the plane for fun.” Her hand traces the curve of my collarbone, feeling for more blemishes. “I just feel like I have to do my part, you know? It doesn’t change how I feel about us.”

“Oh,” I stammer, not wanting to give up gliding anymore than an addict wants to give up dope. “Well, we’re here already. We might as well enjoy the jump we have left ahead of us. Then, we can stop. Let’s just do one last jump.”

“Yeah, okay,” she says while laying her head on my shoulder, “we can finish our jump here. But there is more to life, you know.” She slides my hand to her hip to rest beside her belly.

I realize too late that living only for the present moment comes at the cost of the past and future.

I open my eyes.

The smoke is thinning. A jolt of fear sparks down my spine as I see the split racing towards me. With the adrenaline-fueled effort of pushing a car with the parking brake on, I inch my arms and legs outward until they are fully extended and, gliding again, I veer to the left.

Left!

I come within inches of the rocky-cliff face. If I die now, it’d be the end of my bloodline. Extinct.

But I don’t die.

Not yet.

'The Valley of Hope' original art by the author, Justin Keeling

The Scarlet Macaw

With barely enough room, I zoom through the narrow valley. I want to cough but the oncoming air fills my lungs so quickly that I can’t.

Then I see it: a scarlet macaw flying alongside me, holding me in its gaze. At this moment, as we flee the smoke and fire, flying coastward, desperately trying to save our lives, I understand. At this moment there is no difference between the scarlet macaw and myself—or Amy—because there was never any difference between us. We are all living creatures. We are all pieces of the earth, flowing within it like blood. Each increment of destruction—each acre burned, each chartered flight—hurts us all.

We’re all dying. Pollution. Waste. Deforestation. We are all dying. We’ve unbalanced the ecosystem and we are passively risking our existence because we refuse to make conscious choices. The scarlet macaw is dying too—for the same reasons: human mistakes. Our mistakes. My mistakes.

I’m sorry, I want to tell the beautiful, doomed bird. I’m sorry. Why should you have to die? Why should any creature perish because of humankind? Forgive me, please.

It is my fault she died. I shouldn’t have pushed her to jump with me. It’s all my fault. My throat ties into a knot and I let out a mournful, squawking sob. Forgive me, Amy.

I’m sorry, I say to Amy’s mother as we sit in their living room a year ago. She doesn’t blame me but she doesn’t forgive me either. She blankly walks into the other room. I wait for her to return but she doesn’t. I have taken everything from her and she has nothing more to give.

'The Scarlet Macaw' original art by the author, Justin Keeling

The scarlet macaw blinks its ambivalent yellow eye and flies away.

I shoot out of the Valley of Hope, nearing the end of my jump. My altimeter shouts its last warning in my ear as I approach the sea. I’ve never made a water-landing. Will it hurt—if I live? Does it matter?

Can I forgive myself?

I see trucks below: the loggers who set this forest ablaze. I hate them yet I am them. Do they notice me? No time for thought.

I’m over the beach, losing altitude. The sand is a dozen yards below me. How fast am I going? I angle myself upward, trying to be parallel with the water. Half a dozen yards. Descending, I can feel the ocean mist touch my face. Terrified, I brace myself. Ten feet. Five feet. One.

Please let me live.

Nil.

'Linens, The Last Night' original art by the author, Justin Keeling

The Choice

I’m not sure what happens after death. I don’t know if my consciousness will continue in a disembodied state, if it’ll join a collective consciousness, or if it’ll fade like a dying flame.

I wonder: does the scarlet macaw have a soul? Do I?

My stomach skims the surface of the water. For a fraction of a salt-misted instant, I feel the drag then I bounce up. I dip again and feel the skidding lurch of the ocean breaking beneath me. Then, I am airborne again.

Stuttering, I skitter like a skipped stone, like an airplane landing until suddenly I collide with the waves. I don’t know how fast. Thirty miles per hour? Eighty? I am a car crashing through the plaster walls of a house. Then, I am underwater.

The warm ocean holds me in its womb.

I scramble to find the surface but it’s impossible in the wingsuit. The current pushes me, pulls me, drags me down. My fingers, nerve-shot and shaking, reach for the zipper and tug. I molt my crimson suit.

I remember my last night with Amy, huddling together with the pale turquoise bedding stretching over our heads as a thunderstorm crashes in the distance.

“The sheets look like an open sky,” she murmurs. We are naked, sweaty.

“Yeah,” I breathe as my fingers graze her ear.

“You feel it too, right?” She asks. “That visceral need to protect the environment—for the future?” She lifts her head to face me. Her breath is warm against my face. It’s sweet like cinnamon.

“I—dunno,” I admit, “but I know it is the right thing to do. And I believe in you.”

Her eyes hold me for a long moment. I don’t know if my answer satisfies her or not. Finally, she leans closer and kisses me.

“You better. It is my life’s dream, after all” she says, a mortal whisp beneath the storm.

There is a rumble of thunder and we hear rain showering on the tin roof.

I don’t know that this will be the last night we spend together. Otherwise, I would hold on to her tighter. I would listen more so that I could memorize the tone of her voice. I would study her features with my fingertips. I would breathe her scent like a man underwater, frantic for air.

It was her vocation to help save the world. All I’ve done in the past year is feel sorry for myself and be reckless with my life. I wish she had survived instead of me.

But she didn’t. I did.

Now, somehow, I have to make my life worth her loss.

'Tropical Womb' original art by the author, Justin Keeling

Reborn in the tropical water, I let out a breath and follow the bubbles upward. Kicking furiously, lungs spasming, I break the surface and gasp. I’m alive?

My arms are nothing against the heavy waves but I slog toward land, struggling to stay aloft the tumultuous crests. The way back is far and I am empty. The adrenaline wanes within me but I force my iron heavy arms to swim, thinking of Amy.

Finally, my feet scrape against a seabed of broken shells and sand. Almost naked, I crawl onto the ash-strewn shoreline, breathless and heaving. All my fear transforms into gratitude as I am reunited with the earth. I can feel her love radiate through me.

I drag myself to dry sand and strip off my flight goggles. Then, flopping onto my back and feeling the warm sun on my face, I laugh until my lungs spasm into coughing fits but I keep laughing because the earth is here for me and I’m alive.

Alive.

Tears blur my eyes as my laughs turn into yells of triumph and relief. I slam my fists on the beach and hurl volleys of sand into the air.

Alive!

My yawps shutter to a stop, an exasperated breath.

I’m alive, Amy.

I lay on the beach, exhausted. My arms and legs are dense mountain ranges spread out beside me. My breathing is the long-striding gusts of wind that buffet the sea and caress the coast with jets of ocean mist.

I swear that I won’t lose this gratitude, this sense of purpose. I won’t live impulsively. I won’t drown myself in sorrow or risk my life. If I don’t choose my fate intentionally then it’ll be chosen for me. I won’t live that way—especially when I have so little time to lead a better life, to dedicate myself to helping this fragile world. I have to care for it, somehow. I have to give back more than I take.

I hear the call of the macaw echo off the valley walls the way Amy's love echoes in my heart.

It’s time I follow through on my promise to give up gliding and find new ways of remembering Amy. I’ll find better ways to celebrate life. I'll find a way to carry out her dream.

I will never jump again.

'Feather' original art by the author, Justin Keeling

Adventure
126

About the Creator

Justin

Storyteller, artist, musician, designer.

Reader insights

Outstanding

Excellent work. Looking forward to reading more!

Top insights

  1. Compelling and original writing

    Creative use of language & vocab

  2. Easy to read and follow

    Well-structured & engaging content

  3. Excellent storytelling

    Original narrative & well developed characters

  1. Eye opening

    Niche topic & fresh perspectives

  2. Heartfelt and relatable

    The story invoked strong personal emotions

  3. Masterful proofreading

    Zero grammar & spelling mistakes

Add your insights

Comments

There are no comments for this story

Be the first to respond and start the conversation.

Sign in to comment

    Find us on social media

    Miscellaneous links

    • Explore
    • Contact
    • Privacy Policy
    • Terms of Use
    • Support

    © 2024 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.