12th of May, 2010.
It was an odd occurrence for Luke to find himself in such a dire location, condition and vocation. Although in hindsight, from the moment he was born his condition prompted poking and prodding of a physical and metaphysical nature, and caused him to fall into numerous predicaments, so perhaps the concomitant result is far from odd. In fact it was his seemingly fitting vocation and peculiar condition that landed him in such a location. Even his real name was indicative of his abnormality, which is why he incessantly referred to himself as Luke. But in his current quandary the constant struggle of equality that plagued his existence was suddenly reversed into a glow of appreciation for his oddity.
There were seven men advancing on him. All of them had dark blue shirts and trousers with small black epaulets on the shoulders. All but one had octagonal flat caps with short brims. The dishevelled hatless man stood on the wing of the group, slightly behind the others, holding a long coil of rope and spinning the noose end menacingly.
“Oh, shit.” Luke had an apparent firm grasp of the situation.
“Now, just take it easy. No one wants any trouble.” The largest guard spoke through gritted teeth. Luke’s eyes spun quickly, darting from foe to foe. The men advanced closer, edging their way over the concrete floors. Luke was shorter than all of them – a physical trait that was passed down the bloodline of his vertically challenged father. He sank further back from the small mob, until he felt the bricks and metal of the wall.
“Easy, buddy. Easy.” The rope-wielding cowboy-guard began pushing the others forward. The seven men advanced slowly, their arms stretched out as if they were about to take flight. The irony. Firstly, as Luke was the first person in history to be born with wings; and secondly, the men were indeed trying to take the option of flight away from him.
Luke looked to the ceiling of the prison’s indoor recreation area. He spied the usual target: the small ledge of the highest barred window. He glanced between the advancing guards, and took a deep breath.
“Now! Now! Now!” The guards gave their portentous battle cries and charged at Luke. He spread his wings to their full and awe-inspiring span and with a mighty plunge towards the cracked floor he rose in majesty from the chaos below. The guards rushed forward and threw themselves at Luke’s feet, falling inches short and crashing together against the wall. With another burst Luke ascended over the guards heads and turned his attention to the window ledge.
Unfortunately, the cowboy-guard proved to be unbefitting of ridicule, and expertly looped the coiled rope over Luke’s head.
From the age of seventeen, Luke had been able to pick up and fly comfortably with an average-sized person in his arms – it had even been his job for some time. But flying with five large men hanging from a rope crushing his voice box proved to be the shortest game of tug-of-war in history.
Upon Luke’s unceremonious landing – face-first onto the marked lines of the recreation area’s basketball court – the seven guards leapt on him, grappling for his limbs. Three men pinned him to the ground while two guards wrangled a wing each, trying to hold them outstretched. After a few brief moments of jostling, scrambling and tumbling, the group had managed to hold Luke’s wings against the ground.
The largest guard shouted in the direction of the doors in the far corner, “Ok guys, we got him.”
The double doors opened wide and two men carrying a large guillotine rushed over to the uncouth bundle of flesh and feathers. The guillotine had been made upon Luke’s arrival to the penitentiary and was slapped together with loose pieces of wood found in the prison’s greenhouse and a machete that one of the guards had confiscated from another inmate’s grievously dim-witted visitor.
The two men on Luke’s left wing slipped it into the guillotine and slammed the lever, sending the sharp blade through the pinion, and showering the feathers outwards across the floor. After the right wing was guillotined into a similar plume of plumage the men released Luke, who stood up, heaving with exertion from the struggle and brushed the fallen feathers from his shoulders and arms. He flexed his wings uncomfortably. The monthly clipping felt similar to when you cut your nails, and everything you touch feels distant and electric. The difference with wings is that you don’t have to touch anything to feel that discomposing feeling, and it usually took about a week for normality to return.
Last time Luke had managed to evade the surprise hunting party as they ran into the rec area in their pruning routine, and sat triumphantly on his ledge for hours, slowly cutting away at the bars while the guards tried repeatedly to force a cherry picker through the impractically small double doors. Luke had almost made it through the third bar using a chisel that he liberated from the prison workshop. It would have been easier had he been born with talons, but unfortunately, while it is demonstrably bizarre that he was born with wings, that is where his ornithological similarities end.
The guards began sweeping up the dirtier feathers, keeping the clean white ones to be made into the quills that over the past six months had conjured a spurious sophistication amongst them.
“Same time in a month or so then, ay Luke?” The largest guard asked.
Luke smiled wryly. “We’ll see, Brian.” Brian returned the smile then turned and followed the others out of the room, swinging his baton with a well-practiced finesse.
A loud and grinding buzz came from the speakers circling the rec area, signalling the arrival of visitors, and the mandatory assembly of prisoners at the front of their cells to find out if anyone in the free world still loved them.
Luke trudged towards the double doors alone. The guards kept a close eye on him towards the end of every month, but without his wings, Luke couldn’t be more pitifully harmless. He retrieved the chisel from his pocket and began twirling it between his fingers, both hoping and dreading that today was the day that Mikey decided to visit.
Stay Tuned..
E. L. Dornbusch..
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