This rooftop has seen many eventful nights. Like sitting on the ledge with Sylvia smoking a joint after putting down an eighth of mushrooms. Debating what flavor cheese the moon is; the obvious answer, Gouda.
Pigeons congregate here but I don’t mind much. They’re actually nice to admire; living their not so complicated life of flying, eating, and shitting. Dropping this pretty blotter tab with the smiling sun, I grow a little envious. What I wouldn’t give to soar around the city, perching on landmarks while crapping on innocent bystanders and statues alike. But here I am grounded in my red Chucks, bound to concrete sidewalks and asphalt. That wears away the soles of my feet.
Stepping up on the ledge I stare across my little neighborhood. I watch street lights systematically turn on like clockwork. The sunset paints the sky with strokes of orange and pink, swirling them together along the clouds that breathe hanging overhead. Distant towers lit the horizon like thousands of stars. As they reflect milky white moonlight onto the cityscape below.
The pigeons take off in unison falling into place with one another. It’s a choreographed dance of flight; all of them in perfect position to one another. It makes me smile, the beauty found in these little insignificant moments. Fear has held me in its grasp for a lifetime now. Tonight I fight back against fear; tonight I soar like my feathered friends. So I jump. Free falling, it’s an interesting sensation. I relax my body to let it enjoy the jet streams of air coursing through. Memories begin to play all around me. I see countless moments of my life playing everywhere I look; like a drive-in movie theater. The night I met Sylvia when she kissed me and I fell in love; family BBQ’s in the backyard sneaking shots with my brothers, getting pulled in my radio flyer wagon as a kid by my dog; fumbling with my shirt while Sylvia laughed at my undressing speed, playing cards into the night with my mom and uncle; pickup games of basketball with my friends, fighting with Sylvia having her cry into her hands; going to my father's apartment to collect his personal things after getting a phone call, drinking whiskey while I cried into my hands; saying goodbye to Sylvia at her door for the last time. I can’t tell if my eyes are welling up from how fast I’m moving, or because of the afternoon features playing—Splash!
Underwater light beams shine through dancing along blue tinted walls surrounding me. The shadows draw stories as bubbles pull me to the top. Emerging I fill my lungs to the brim, and notice a pigeon curiously staring at me. Coo coo. As one of his friends fly over, it drops a nice present onto my forehead. Coo coo.
Christian Canete is an aspiring writer from Miami Beach, Florida. Primarily composing works of flash fiction, short stories, and poetry. In 2012 he was awarded first place in the category of fiction at the FCSPA Conference and Competition; for his short story included in Axis, the Miami Dade College (North Campus) art magazine.