Head in the Clouds

At dead of night, once again, Boy was cupping cold water into his hands and splashing it onto his cheeks. He had just come out of another grief-driven dream, the one where his father was present, but wouldn’t speak to him. So close and yet so far, Boy felt his own mind was taunting him. Teasing him for not spending more time with his father. He knew he was better than that, smarter than that. Suddenly he noticed he was gripping the sides of the sink a little hard, he relaxed. Inhaling deeply then exhaling, Boy rolled his shoulders back than began towards the restroom door, reaching out his hand to the golden knob. He turned it and drowsily walked outside.

“Welcome aboard, Boy!” A light voice beamed into Boy’s left ear, whomever it was, they were quite loud for it being the middle of the night. Though, Boy soon came to the realization that there were a handful of things that seemed odd. Firstly, it was no longer dark and dead quite in his home. It was bright as day, in fact, for what Boy could tell it did look like it was about midday all around him. There was a low humming noise that Boy couldn’t quite decipher. Secondly, he simply was no longer in his home. As Boy’s eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight, he noticed teal blue seats neatly placed in rows. There was a carpeted walkway splitting the row of seats in half. The surrounding area was sealed in a cylindrical like tube, small, reinforced windows were placed at each edge seat, and blue skies cascaded outside of said windows. Boy turned back to the restroom he just walked out of it technically was still a restroom, though more compact now. The toilet and sink nearly touched each other. The door was no longer made of wood with the gold knob, now it seemed to be made of hard plastic like material. The knob was replaced by a crude lever, above was a gauge that currently said “Unoccupied”. Lastly, who just spoke to him?

Boy pivoted to face who had just spoken to him, and he was greeted by a face he didn’t recognize. It was a female flight attendant, who looked very chirper. Her soft smile bloomed into a grin, her cheekbones pushing her eyes nearly closed. “You should probably take your seat, Boy,” she said, breaking the silence. “We might experience some turbulence, it’ll safer when you’re in your seat.”

Stunned, Boy took a second to respond with, “Where am I? And just who are you?”

“You know this place, and you know me!” The flight attendant giggled.

“Here? An airplane?”

“Close.”

“Well, I’ve been on airplanes before, I don’t understand, what’s your name?”

“Not telling.”

Boy’s head spun, he couldn’t whip up a response other than, “Why?”

“Simple,” she said. “You haven’t completed the puzzle yet.” The flight attendant then turned and, without another word, began down the aisle towards the front of the plane and cockpit. Boy reluctantly followed until she stopped abruptly. She turned back to Boy and extended her right arm to the nearest seat, “This is your seat, Boy. You can either chose to sit and wait for landing or try and solve the puzzle.”

“I don’t understand,” boy replied. “I don’t know who you are, where I am, or any puzzles that have to do with me.”

The cheer on the face attendant seemed to dissolve slowly, her tone switched to that of somber and she said, “You lie to yourself, you have been for far too long, just take the seat Boy.”

Boy switched his gaze from the sad eyes of the flight attendant to the seat that she said was his. Something about the seat made a lump form in his stomach, it gave him a headache. It was like he’d seen, or imagined, this very seat before. He’d not only seen it, but Boy knew he once sat in it too. Boy was done sitting. “What is the puzzle?”

The flight attendant’s soft smile beamed once again and she replied, “Wonderful! I’m so glad! Now, listen closely! Firstly, you have to find the root.”

“The root?”

“Yes. Secondly, you have to find the finale.”

“Wait, a root and a finale? What do you mean?”

“Thirdly, and this is really important, you have to find my name. Then and only then will I give you the key to access the cockpit.”

“This puzzle makes no sense!” Boy threw his hands into the air. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be looking for!” Boy exhausted his point by spinning in a circle, examining the whole plane. As he was turning back, he finished with, “And what is in the- “

The flight attendant was gone. Boy spun around for a second time, there was no one. The only thing that kept Boy company was the low buzz of the airplane flying. This was all very confusing to him, but Boy finally knew where he was. He was in a dream, one of the weird dreams had had just woken up from. The only thing is, he never woke up in the first place. Now knowing that he was dreaming, Boy looked down at his left arm, he eyed his forearm for a second before pinching himself with his right hand. Nothing, he was still on the plane. He pinched again, this time bruising his skin just a little bit. Still nothing. He tried once more.

CLUNK!

A noise had startled Boy back to the present, or rather, back to his dream? He didn’t dwell on it, finding more curiosity in the noise that just erupted through the empty airplane. Boy pondered for a moment, even if he did meet some sort of monster at the end of the aisle, that would only wake him up sooner. Everybody knows that in dreams you can never outrun anything, you find yourself in a full sprint, but you aren’t making any ground. Then, when the big scary thing catches up to you, boom, you’re awake.

Boy started off in a quick pace towards the rear of the plane, he approached where he entered the dream, being the restroom. The door was still open from when Boy walked out of it, he peered inside, and all looked in order. Though crowded, the bathroom was tidy. Spotless on every surface, no dirt nor grime, and there were little things such as the toilet paper was ended in a folded point. Nothing looked out of sorts in there, Boy grabbed the lever of the door and closed it.

There wasn’t much more in the back of the plane. Just some storage places which housed no suitcases. Boy examined every cabinet and drawer, there was nothing. This was a plane meant to harbor nothing and nobody, and yet Boy found himself stuck inside it. Why?

Boy’s headache had only gotten worse looking for roots and stories, then finding nothing. No clues, no traces, just nothing. He had doubled back towards the cockpit when he noticed something. I small kitchen like cavity that stood precisely parallel with the restroom. This had everything a flight attendant would need to care for the passengers. Storage which could house food, a fridge for beverages and other cold things, and a sink for cleanliness. Boy gazed at the cabinets and the fridge, maybe there was something he could eat or drink, possibly even something to calm his raging headache.

Then Boy saw it. Sitting inside the sink was a tattered and torn composition notebook and a pencil. It seemed familiar, Boy retrieved it from the sink and examined it. His name was written on the front. Curiosity took over once again as he flipped the notebook open to its first page. It was titled “The Jester”. The writings underneath told a tragic story of a jester who wanted to be a knight because he fell in love with the princess of the royal family, he was a fool for. It was a tragedy for the reason that when the castle was attacked, the jester managed to save the royal family and their subjects, but the princess lost her life in the siege. This story, this notebook, Boy knew what it was. They were his. He wrote this story in this very composition notebook.

This story originated from Boy’s middle school days; this was when he took a creative writing class for the first time. He loved it, truly. He’d find himself taking every piece, poem, and story proudly home to his mother and father in order to show them his work. Boy’s father was the most excited to read them every time.

While the thought of his father entered Boy’s mind, he was overcome with an intense sadness that was inlayed with anger. Boy thought to himself that his little jester story was dumb and unoriginal, plenty of stories just like his were told before. Those stories were written much better too. How could Boy bring home such a terrible story for his father to read? If only, Boy thought, his father could read what he wrote now. If only.

Boy’s thoughts ceased, his anger calmed, and he was only left with sadness. Boy didn’t write much anymore. Just like this instance he debated with himself every time he tried. It was easier as a kid. It was easier with his father.

Boy drew a deep breath in, then exhaled. Not this time. He wasn’t going to be teased and taunted by another nightmare, not anymore. He snatched the pencil out of the sink and marched towards the front of the plane. He found his seat that the flight attendant assigned to him prior. Now he chose to sit amongst the seats completely alone. He flipped open the composition notebook and found the first blank paged straight after his jester story.

Boy began to mindlessly scribble word after word, he was attempting to fix his old story. Implementing the things, he had learned since middle school, he chipped away at a new story. The story went as this. A jester who entertained a king and queen wanted to become a knight, he found life as a jester boring and uneventful. However, he would never be allowed permission to become a knight. The jester didn’t fight this until he met the princess of the kingdom, named Princess Dahlia. He fell in love with her and trained in secret in order to protect her. One night, a renegade nation attacked the kingdom, and if it wasn’t for the jester who was in the throne room the entire royal family would have lost their lives. Instead, the knights of the kingdom rallied, they had survived the night. Then when dawn came and the rival nation retreated back to their own lands, the knights were left to pick through the rubble of the throne room. The jester was found dead, performing the service he always wanted to give, and protecting the one that he loved.

The lead of Boy’s pencil broke and he snapped out of his trance of sadness. He fully read what he just scribbled onto the page of his notebook. It was the same story, just a different death. Was it better for the Jester to die instead of the princess? Would it have made a better story for his father? Boy didn’t have the answers, he never had any. It was useless, there were thousands of writers that could craft a story way better than his. Thousands more were actually published authors. His father never got to see Boy sail that far, so what was the point now?

Boy’s headache spiked; his anger returned. He rose from his seat and threw the notebook to the other side of the plane. The notebook had bounced off a seat onto the floor, the pencil had shattered on the window leaving behind a mark of scuff.

Boy breathed heavily trying to calm his emotions, his mind repeated the same question over and over again. How can I make a good story? He pondered further, was it the characters? The motivation or moral? What if it was the tragic death as the climax of the story? Would it have been better if everyone had lived?

Boy shook his head, that wouldn’t be realistic. In real life, people don’t get to decide who lives or dies. Boy knew that all too well. He concluded that maybe he should try again, he started walking towards his thrown notebook when he caught a glimpse of something in the corner of his eye. He turned facing down the aisle and Boy saw the flight attendant he had met before. She still sported her smile, though now she was crying. “Hello again,” Boy said. “I was just… well you know, don’t you?”

She drew in a breath then said, “Why do you doubt yourself, Boy?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Your stories, you disown them. You tarnish them. Why?”

“I don’t have the answer.”

“Yes, you do. You already have two of the three, you just don’t see it yet.”

Boy thought for a second as to what she could be referring to. The only connection he could make was to her three puzzles. He pondered more and everything seemed to fit together. His middle school composition notebook was the “root” of his love for creative writing, he then found himself writing a different “finale” from the original one in his notebook. All that was left was her name, the flight attendant.

Boy saw a spark in her eyes, a sense of familiarity. It didn’t take him long before he had figured it out. Every feature of the flight attendant now bloomed in Boy’s mind. He knew her, definitely. Her walnut-colored hair and fair toned skin. Her emerald, green eyes. She looked precisely like a princess, wearing a flight attendants uniform. Boy knew her because he created her.

“Dahlia,” Boy said. “Your name is Dahlia.”

Dahlia smiled warmly; she raised her right hand beholding a key. “You passed!” Dahlia cheered. “You’ve earned this.”

Boy examined the key that he knew led to the cockpit, he turned to face the front of the plane and said, “He’s in there, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“What can I say to him?”

“What would you like to say?”

Boy’s voice shook as he spoke, “I’d say that it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that he left before I could show him how much I’ve grown. Nor my first published book. It wasn’t fair.”

Dahlia’s eyes saddened, she clutched the key in her hand and approached Boy, now speaking to his back, “We don’t get to decide who lives or dies. However, we do get to decide whether we want to be a jester or a knight.” That comment stuck a cord in Boys heart, he turned to face Dahlia. “He may not be physically here with you, but what makes you think that he isn’t cheering you on?” Dahlia offered the key once again. “Let this be the night you survived an attack on your kingdom. Rebuild on the memories of hope and happiness that reined after the time of your princess or jester. Make it your own.”

Boy withheld his tears, he slowly reached out and grabbed the key. “Thank you, Dahlia,” he said. “Till we meet again.” Through trying his best, Boy still had to blink out a small tear, and in doing so Dahlia vanished once again. Boy was left alone once more, the key in his hands. Boy looked at his designated seat, it was all clear now. He had been here before, and every single time he had sat down and waited for landing. Up until now Boy avoided his problems and bottled up his emotions. He stopped writing and started doubting. Now, clutched in his palm, was the key to what he needed all this time. A goodbye.

For a final time, Boy marched down the aisle heading straight for the cockpit door. When he arrived, he took a massive breath in and exhaled completely. He knew now why this dream was meant to take place inside of an airplane. His father had always been a fan of aviation, Boy and him went to many airshows together. Boy then put the key up to a keyhole just next to the door handle, that had some semblance of the restroom handle, and he turned it. Grabbing the door handle now, he pushed open the cockpit door and entered inside.

The cockpit seemed normal, just like the rest of the plane. Consoles, buttons, and levers marked the whole front, there was paperwork stashed in tight places and two large seats for the pilots to sit. Behind one of the seats was a food try, there was an empty plate and an empty glass on the tray.

“It’s good to see you up and walking, Boy.” A warm friendly voice boomed from in front of Boy, he didn’t even question it, it was the voice of his father. Boy looked back up from the tray on the floor to the chairs in front of him, they were just barely vacant, now the chair that sat in front of the food tray had a figure in it. The figures build had wide shoulders and was taller than normal, all traits of Boy’s father. “What took you so long?” The figure spoke.

“You’re not real. You’re just a dream.” Boy shot back.

“Is that so? Would you have followed along with three puzzles If you believed me to be fake?”

“This isn’t the first time.”

“It’s the first time you’ve gotten this far.”

“Yeah? Well, I’ve come to tell you something.”

“What is it, Boy?”

Boy wanted to yell, he wanted to scream his thoughts of everything being unfair to him and his family. His father died so soon, and he hates his mind for taunting him like this. Defeated, Boy said, “Never mind, I’ll just sit and wait until we land, maybe then I’ll wake up.”

Boy turned to return to his seat, but then his father said, “Why did you stop writing, Boy?”

Boy told the truth, “I didn’t think I could be good enough, I wanted to make you proud. I was sad.”

Boy’s father sighed, “I’ve always been proud of every story you’ve written. However, the story I care most for is yours, Boy. I want you to grow and achieve everything you want to be in life. The shackles of grief will always be with you, but you must not let them weigh you down. This is your story, you are the author, and everyone loves a good underdog story.” Boy turned to face his father’s figure once again, his father concluded with, “I love you, Boy. I will never stop cheering you on. Always have, always will. No matter what.” The figure of Boy’s father turned ever so slightly and when Boy could almost pick out his fathers face, he woke up.

Tears streaming down his voice, Boy swung out of his bed while wiping his cheeks, he made his way to the bathroom. Boy splashed cold water on his face then dried off. He took a minute to ponder as he stared at himself in the mirror. Then Boy had an idea. He rushed back to his room and searched for his old middle school composition notebook, eventually finding it in a box filled with memorabilia. He flipped it open and saw his jester story, he pushed past it eventually finding a blank page near the end of the book. Boy retrieved a pencil and began to write a new story. It began with a boy exiting his homes bathroom, then finding himself on a plane.