A short story by Frank Diamond

AUTHOR’S NOTE: My short story, “Flight,” was published today (September 2, 2026) in the literary magazine ARCHIVE. Here is the url for the pdf. “Flight” starts on page 121. It is also pasted in below in WordPress. “Flight” was written in 1987. I excavated it from an old filing cabinet.
https://heyzine.com/flip-book/925fd0de74.html#page/120

In fifth grade, as part of a class project, I had to write an essay on what I considered to be my most unique attribute. The crush I had on my teacher, Miss Grey, no doubt prodded me to make a decision which complicated my life for a while. In the paper, I revealed my special talent: the ability to release my psyche. 

Let me explain. Remember those old religious illustrations depicting the soul leaping from the body at the moment of death? That’s as close as I can come to describing what happens when I — Thomas Callahan — separate my essence. While the physical part of me seems to sleep, my thoughts — but not only my thoughts — go anywhere I please. I fly about the air and pass through walls. I occupy the space right next to you.

But in those days the most unique aspect of the gift was my certain knowledge of it because, up to that point, I had never actually used the power.

What if I couldn’t get back inside my body? Like a timid sparrow, I was content to restrain my wings and bob around with the rest of humanity.

That essay was the first time my attempts to reveal myself were taken seriously by adults. Consternation resulted. I recall a hushed conversation with Miss Grey and the principal.

“But, Thomas, surely you don’t mean….”

But that’s exactly what I meant.

“Can you show us, Thomas?”

I bowed my head.

“Do you know what a daydream is?”

Miss Grey — Alison Grey of the Port Richmond section of Philadelphia — was the first woman I ever loved. This was a schoolboy’s crush, certainly. But it went further than that and I’ve come to regard this early attachment as a threshold in my relations with the opposite sex.

Miss Grey had red, wiry hair which in the morning was usually rolled and tied in the back. As the day progressed, more and more of the mane would spill from its bondage so that by afternoon, her features were bordered by a halo of fire. In the first months of class, Miss Grey compensated for her youth by being a strict disciplinarian, but once she ruled uncontested, she exuded a fey tenderness which made her everyone’s favorite teacher. I like to think I was advanced for my age but probably every boy and many of the girls had a crush on Miss Grey.

For me, she was the first woman who aroused those vague yearnings and anxieties that would later become sexual desire. But in such an embryonic stage, desire was wanting to be close to my teacher in order to smell her perfume or watch the way her pretty hands scratched symbols on the blackboard.

To attain this closeness, I would do things which — just thinking about them a year later when I was in sixth grade — shamed me. I would volunteer to clean the room after school just to watch her grade papers.

And any special class project would receive the dubious benefit of my participation. For instance, I played Lord of the Pumpkin Patch in the Halloween play.

And there were those magic moments when I was used as an example for the rest of the class.

“I Just love the way Thomas is sitting,” Miss Grey would say. “Look at his posture.”

I beamed as all the other kids wiggled in their seats to try and match me — arched shoulder for arched shoulder.

She laughed easily and from the soul and there was something stable about Miss Grey. Years later, when I was cruising downtown with some friends from college, I spotted her walking into a restaurant. She was being escorted by a man who I supposed was her husband.

I only glimpsed her from a passing car but in that moment, I could see she had not changed in twelve years except to look more self-assured.

When she was my teacher, Miss Grey was about 22 years old: a Catholic college girl hired just after graduation to teach in a Catholic elementary school.

The first time I ever used my power was the day I revealed myself to Miss Grey. She and the principal had interviewed me after dismissal for about 15 minutes. Later that afternoon, I was alone in the bedroom I shared with two little brothers. My books were spread on the floor, but I wasn’t concentrating on homework. Instead, I dwelt on Miss Grey’s concern which, instead of being a source of solace, rankled me. With my essay I had indeed achieved a special status in her eyes but not the one I sought. She saw only a disturbed child.

Suddenly I stood, and as I did, I turned to see my body collapse onto the floor.

I was praying as I lifted myself through the window and over the tarred ledges of the rowhomes. I know now that, at a maximum, I can fly about 30 miles an hour when in my psychic state. But I remember floating that day as if I were a feather drawn along by the slightest breeze.

It was late Autumn, two weeks before Christmas. Green and red lights twinkled below. I was where I always thought I could be: above the cars and buses, over the rush-hour throng and all the funny little shoppers.

I wish I could tell you how it felt that first time, to move in and out of a crowd as though I were a ghost and to see things that people — normal people — do when they think no one is watching. I want to explain the awful excitement. But the truth is I forget much of my reaction. Do you remember how it felt to ride a bike for the first time?

I had the ability as I always knew I had the ability. But that evening I discovered how desire unlocked everything. When I floated above the school building, I lowered myself by thinking about lowering myself. It was as simple as that. After passing through the roof, I floated through the darkened corridors until I spotted lights shining from the principal’s office.

At the doorway, Miss Grey struggled into her coat.

“Children daydream but the way he can’t separate fantasy from reality is not healthy,” she said.

“He’s a good student,’ the principal said.

“An excellent student, and well-behaved,” Miss Grey said. “Still…”

“Let’s schedule some counseling,” the principal said. “l’ll call his … guardians is it?”

“Yes, and they’ll agree to it,” Miss Grey said. “Thomas lived in foster homes for the first three years of his life. Think about that. He might already have had some counseling.”

Hearing them talk, I realized that the way to thwart their plans was to simply lie and say I was making the whole thing up. I had had too much of questions I couldn’t answer. I would lie, I decided, and Miss Grey would think less of me. But there was no alternative and somehow, I would win her back.

The expenditure of the day had drained me for I suddenly felt as if I might weep. Though exhausted, one clear thought registered: I would always be alone. I’d never be able to reveal or explain myself to anyone, not even somebody I loved.

Floating above her head, halt in and half out of the ceiling, I followed Miss Grey down the musty stairway and out onto the parking lot. As she walked to her car, she clutched her overcoat against what must have been a biting wind.

I watched as she looked in the car’s rearview mirror to apply lipstick and brush her hair. She also adjusted her bra, pulling at the cups to make her breasts appear more elevated. I wondered if she was going to meet her boyfriend.

For a moment, I was tempted to follow her, to find out about her life. Wouldn’t that be something? But I didn’t know exactly how to do it. I couldn’t sit in the passenger seat. The car would go and I — being unsolid — would stay.

It was getting late anyway, and I knew that soon, at my house, someone would be calling me to dinner. I watched as Miss Grey drove her car out of the parking lot. When the school blocked my view, I rose above the plated dome and silver cross on top of the building and spotted her again. I floated higher and higher, keeping her in sight for as long as I could before the car’s lights blended with the multitudinous red and yellow streaks or the city.