Jorian turned to his sister who had been holding their parents letter to the point that it had been tattered. "You are making too much noise. Shhh they'll hear us." Jorian whispered with an obvious hint of frustration and exhaustion. "Why can't we just fly away? " Jorian's sister Haraja whined. "The tracking device, remember? We have to break it and I have an idea how to so just trust me." Jorian replied. "I hate these soldiers. I want mommy and daddy" Haraja cried.
It was a steamy 104 degrees Fahrenheit in their little village and the night time bug life had a combination of a glowing essence and hypnotic sounds. The soft mud had many foot prints of mostly Chinese and American soldiers accompanied with tanks and other military personal. Any African child caught in the air was to be killed on sight per the overlords of the travel industry. Children in certain African villages have begun to fly and very powerful people have so far failed to bury their existence.
Spencer Bobby, A fat, pale skinned mercenary known for his disgust for anything black, had been the most effective at finding fliers. You can find bottles of rum in his jeep and yellow around his fingers from constant cigarette smoking. Hailing from Virginia, he spends his time working with private contractors who do the most amoral of jobs. To them, dead African children are just a pay check. They see what they seek to do as just another days work and deep down, a good riddance of an inferior people.
Jorian looked at the sickly glow of the device around his ankle. He had been caught by surprise by the lock gun mid flight. Though the lock gun's original target was his little sister, he put himself in the path because the gun had been known to kill smaller children. To fly back into the air with such a device activated would create a "death pulse" which is a shock of energy that would mortally hurt any flier. "We have to find mom and dad" Jorian said to Haraja. After speaking, he heard foot steps followed by heavy breathing and the sickly smell of bad body odor and rum. "Imma lookin, catchin darkies darkies. Where are ya no good darkies darkies." Spencer silently sang to himself in a tone that was cruel and off key.
A blurt came from Spencer's walkie radio followed by an unknown but stern voice. "Progress report. Have you found that damned leader child!?" Barked that unknown voice with an Afrikaner accent. "Hold yer britches." Spencer replied in a hushed tone before taking a swig of his rum. "I know Rallie tagged one of em. Imma sure of it!" Then suddenly the crack sound of a gun came from the radio followed by a desperate wail. A different voice came through the radio. "Jorian, Haraja!" Yelled a deep and strong African voice. "I know you are out there! If you can here me, mom has disarmed all of the lock gun devices in the area! Jorian!" Spencer quickly shut off his walkie, attempted to run back to his jeep and fell to the ground with a sickly thud and a belch.
It was midnight and the African moon and stars lit the glittery sky with very little clouds. Jorian stood up and grabbed his sister's hand. They looked at each other, then looked at the sky with big passionate eyes because they loved what was about to happen next. "Mom, Dad. We will be reunited with you again". Jorian proclaimed. The wind around their toes began to swirl. They closed their eyes. They simultaneously and flew upward into the mesmerizing African sky. To them there is no feeling in the world like flying. They plan to teach that feeling to the world.
What would happen to the travel industry if humans developed the ability to fly? Though true altruism says it would be a good thing but in the world you are about to enter, the love of money has become god. Those who lust for money, power and control have limited tolerance for human evolution that doesn't involve fattening their pockets. The motor and car insurance industry, the aviation industry and the oil companies all have a stake in finding these African children who have learned to fly and ending their lives. So far, the United States government is treating any African child caught teaching others how to fly as a virus to be destroyed at all costs.
Who would have thought that small African children from an unknown village would have such powerful people on edge? What these children and their families are fighting for is human freedom. They fight for the freedom of you and I to evolve. They fight for the gift from the universe that we were always meant to one day have. They fight for the freedom for us to feel one of the most beautiful sensations that a human being can feel. They know we can fly.
About the Creator
Ire Isegun
I am a transracial adoptee that has been playing the piano and composing for many years. I live off of creativity and am very proud of my black heritage.
Keep reading
More stories from Ire Isegun and writers in Fiction and other communities.
My Real Adoption Story
My name is Corey. I was born in Henry Ford Hospital in 1983 and was taken away at birth to be passed around about four or five Detroit foster homes. According to my adoptive parents, I had seizures, was malnourished and barely had the strength to lift my arms. I was then fostered by my current adoptive family along with other black and white children. Though they hired black workers but had no black friends, my adoptive family began the process of adopting me into their Irish Catholic home. My adoptive parents have three natural children and two adopted white children who are so in the fog that they can’t see sunlight. I am the youngest addition to the family.
By Ire Isegun2 years ago in Families
Peanuts and Crackerjack
Bottom of the ninth inning. The game is tied with two outs, two strikes and a man on second. I tap the bat on home plate. The rigid vibrations it creates reminds my aching digits that this isn't over. The practice swing only adds to the heft of mental burnout... Man on second, willing to chance it. Pitcher eyes him but doesn't give in to the dangerous bluff. I kick up dust, readying the peculiar stance I've had since the days of little league. The bat lays stiff upon my cramping shoulder. Pain has no reason to be acknowledged; it's a fleeting afterthought. The sun sits passed high noon, but the stadium lights are on anyway. They trick my brain into believing they are the cause of this sweltering heat. Sporadic clouds are motionless, they too, don't want to miss this exhilarating predicament. Anticipating the next pitch, intensifying roars from the crowd rumble the stadium... Behind me, the crafty catcher adjusts his stance and spits to the dry dirt. Behind him, the staunch umpire doesn't flinch or even blink; he knows how important his call will be. The pitcher winds up, his grip tells me its gonna curve. The release is fierce! Beads of sweat from his hair and face disperse in every direction as the force of his might is unfailing. My left leg lifts—an instinctual move that will increase the power of my swing. It's all down to my two, bloodshot eyes. They lock onto the speeding, white dot as it instantly becomes the target I intend to destroy. The swing is late, but I manage a solid tip. The ball is taking a fast bounce toward the pitcher who is recovering from the almighty throw! Man on second leaves in a desperate rush! I fling the bat to the side with a sense of urgency and make a mad sprint to the only destination I have—first base. Three defenders race inward to be the first to retrieve the skidding ball. Man is almost on third! I watch the open glove of my adversary, wondering if I’ve done enough to win this race. I switch my attention to his eyes, looking for a clue, some kind of reaction that tells me the ball is in the air and heading his way. All I see is frustration. The deafening roar of the crowd spikes! Something happens that I can’t see! My opponent abandons his post right as my left stride touches the bag. I waste no time turning my head to see the pitcher laying on his stomach, pounding the mound with an open glove. He misses the opportunity to out me and the ball has quickly bounced past him. Excitement grows! This isn’t over yet... It's become an imperative fight to tag out the runner heading homeward. The catcher falls to his knees in obvious despair as he watches my teammate make the run of his life. He knows it’s going to be close when he sees the shortstop fumble the ball a second too long. I jump up and down with no plans on leaving first base. All my chips are on the speed and agility of the active runner. His cleats dig into the dirt, trailing a dust-filled cyclone from the rapid and strenuous strides. With a thrusting dive and an outstretched arm, he lands on his chest to begin the crucial slide to home plate. The shortstop fires the ball to the catcher! It immediately begins closing the gap! Nail-biting doesn't begin to describe the anxious vibe permeating the stadium. The bench begins to celebrate even before he reaches the plate. Forty thousand cheering fans reach maximum crescendo, filling the air with a glorious sound. Everyone knows how this story will end… My teammate is met by the entire bench as his fingers inch across home plate, instantly followed by the unmistakable motion of the catcher's glove attempting to tag him out—its milliseconds too late. The ump swings his arms outward, officially calling him safe.
By Lamar Wiggins4 days ago in Fiction
OF MOTHERHOOD.
Dear mother-to-be, I wanted to let you know how very, very special I think you are. I don't think there can be any job that is more meaningful than the one you are about to begin, that of being a mom. You are the most important person in the world to your precious unborn baby, and you will be for many years.
By Catherine Nyomenda5 days ago in Writers
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.