Stacy ’s Bio:

Stacy Post is a librarian, mother and native Hoosier. Since she has an affinity for wide open spaces, her children surprised her with a flight lesson for Mother’s Day. Once her feet left the ground, it was hard to bring her back down. (A pilot’s license is now on her bucket list.) 

Stacy shares a birthday with Roy Rogers, loves eating Hot Tamales and plays piano by ear. She majored in English at Purdue University and earned a Master’s of Library Science at Indiana University. She has worked in public libraries for the last ten years. 

Reading, writing and rejection recipes are a part of the writing journey she shares on her blog: www.stacypost.blogspot.com. Her previous publications include: Purdue Exponent, Skylark, Haiku Headlines and the Indianapolis Star as a community blogger.  She has work forthcoming in various online publications. This is her first published flash fiction story.

Twist in the Wind

By Stacy Post

 

When she was young, she danced in her silver blue tutu, opening her arms wide and pointing her toes. She balanced on one leg by the open window, enjoying the wind’s soft caress against her face. She flit from one wall and twirled to the other, sometimes knocking over the figurines on the end tables.

“Good grief!” her father said from behind his newspaper. He folded it down and stared with sharp shark eyes. “You’re not graceful! Find something quiet to do.” He pursed his lips. “Promise me.”

Since she was not a graceful ballerina, she thought about sewing. Maybe she could be a seamstress for a dance company? Then she’d be surrounded by tutus all the time. But her large hands proved to be less nimble. Why not a painter? But there was an artist who’d made his fortune already from painting ballerinas.

One day, on summer vacation, her mother asked, “What will you be when you grow up?” Her mother’s tongue clicked. “You must find a use for that nervous energy.” 

The only occupations that sounded quiet to her were: optician, librarian or nun. None of those jobs involved flitting or twirling. The optician spent most of the time in the dark. The librarian was poorly paid. And she wasn’t Catholic; so becoming a nun was out of the question. Besides, all of them required sitting still. Her body ached to leap, stretch and sprint.

In middle school, she took career tests that reported she should work outdoors. The results surprised her, but she weighed the options.  Lifeguard? She didn’t know how to swim. Gardener? Her thumbs were black. Park ranger? She didn’t like uniforms. Pilot?

Piloting was a good job with decent pay. Planes were noisy. And she could travel to the far corners of the earth and be loud when she needed. The tests challenged her. The math was difficult and forgettable. Her first solo flight made her fine blond hair turn white.

She became a pilot, even though flying in the vast sky made her feel small, insignificant. She flew to every continent and, little by little, forgot the promise she’d made to her father.

One day, on a trip across the Indian Ocean, the engine stalled and the plane plummeted. Her heart leapt into her throat. This might be the end. But the engine purred back to life and she yanked the yoke hard just before reaching the murky water. Shark fins jutted from the shiny surface. She saw their dark beady eyes. It reminded her of something, but she couldn’t remember what.

From that day forward, her body betrayed the promise. She stomped through hangars. Laughed louder. Sprinted across landing strips. Even upset the mechanic’s oilcans when opening her arms wide to tell stories.

And sometimes, when the wind was just right, she’d flit from here to there and twirl in the open sky, the wind singing a soft tune. All the time, she’d point her toes inside her pretty silver blue airplane. She’d forget she wasn’t graceful.

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