Waiting excitedly, I wriggle in my passenger seat. The engines begin to run at full power and the aircraft starts to speed; in a flash I’m transported onto the runway and am sprinting behind it.
It becomes airborne; I too softly ascend into the air. To remain afloat, I perform lavish breaststrokes.
It climbs higher; I salute a flock of yapping seagulls, then energetically flap my arms to keep up.
It becomes fainter, then disappears. I shriek as I begin to wobble. ‘Ouch!’ I say. It’s like being pierced by multiple ice daggers.
Coming out wet and dishevelled, I catch sight of it in the distance; I kick frantically to gain momentum.
A kid seated at the very back of the aircraft notices me, his eyes widening with amazement. We keep smiling and waving back and forth. Eventually he gets fed up and sticks out his tongue; annoyed, I respond by cocking a snoot.
I see him tapping on someone’s shoulder. I stop kicking and wiggle my fingers at the boy. Before the other person gets to see me, the plane’s powerful engine thrusts me behind.
I continue to follow the aircraft, my arms wide open. I mimic how it ascends further, tilting one of its wings and turning upwards towards its designated route.
The city beneath us resembles a very large architectural model. Streets with neatly lined up buildings start to disappear, and the greenery takes over.
As we pass the shoreline, I get a little sentimental and wave goodbye.
Back inside the plane, I reach inside my bag and take out a book. I recline my seat and pick up where I had left off.
At last, we reach the top of the hill. Below us, an expansive valley stretches out: endless fields, broken only by farmhouses and clusters of trees. It’s a spectacular view.
He says, “If you look carefully, just ahead you can see a bit of the sea.”
I squint and focus intensely while a gentle breeze begins to dry the dampness under my arms.
“And over there is the airport. Do you see that plane that’s just taken off?”
“Wow,” I remark. “Speaking of planes . . . have you ever tried it?”
“Tried what?”
I start flapping my arms.
“What are you doing?”
“Come on. You’re joking, right?” I slow down. “Don’t tell me you’ve never been curious.”
For a moment, he looks embarrassed. I’ve clearly caught him out. With a defensive roll of the eyes, he mutters, “Are you talking about momentary suspension?”
“You bet I am!” I step in front of him and start flapping my arms really fast.
He becomes panicky.
“Look how isolated we are out here. If something happens, by the time anyone arrives it’ll be too late.”
I pause my arms for a second and say, “Oh, you really love me, don’t you?”
“Of course I love you,” he responds in a stressed tone. He can be so uptight.
“Then you have to let me spread my wings and fly away!”
He rolls his eyes again. “I love you, and I don’t want you to die or end up making me a homicide suspect.”
“Jeez Louise. What’s with the high drama?” I look behind me. I’m pretty close to the edge.
“Fine. I promise I won’t go beyond this spot. There’ll always be the ground beneath my feet.”
He gives me a doubtful look.
“I mean it. Plus, I might not even be able to do it.”
I’m flapping faster now. My breathing intensifies. I have to keep the movement regular and controlled; otherwise, I might lose my suspension and drop, or sprain one of my wrists again, as I did last time. I see him take his phone out of his back pocket and glance at the screen.
“You must be kidding me!”
Straight away he puts it back inside his pocket.
My arms feel nearly numb.
“Oh my God. You’re lifting off!”
I look down.
“Yep!”
Still flapping, I tilt my arms slightly outward and drift towards him.
“We’re the same height now!” I blurt out, nearly out of breath and soaked in sweat.
“I need to film this,” he says.
To give him some space, I turn my palms upward and start flapping away from him.
“Just a sec. I updated my phone this morning and I can’t seem to find the video button.”
I glance down and suddenly realise I’ve drifted beyond the edge. It isn’t a sheer drop, but it would be enough. One irregular flap and I could tumble down, grabbing at the air, perhaps managing to cling to something.
My heart is racing. Stay calm, I tell myself. You can do this. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.
“Oh—here it is. Ready?”
Knowing how close I’ve come, I nod, somehow managing to hold back my tears.
Then, I lower myself and land.
“Ow—why did you stop? I could’ve filmed you a little longer.”
Trembling, I walk over and hug him.
Image: Başak Çalışır, Make-Up, oil on canvas, 100 × 110 cm, 2024.
Selin Tamtekin is a British–Turkish novelist and art writer based in London. Her art writing has appeared in Cornucopia Magazine, The Markaz Review, T24, and elsewhere. Her two novels, written under the pseudonym Deniz Goran, are The Turkish Diplomat’s Daughter (2007) and The Fugitive of Gezi Park (Ortac Press, 2023).