Ten Seconds By Doug Linger I stand upon the edge, looking down. It's a long drop. A quarter mile, I'm told. Quite a ways to fall. I don't back away. I raise my arm before me, and see not the gangly human arms I see in the mirror every day, belonging to a too-tall man with a too-long face and scraggly hair. I see a wing, ready to make my body soar. To fly... I am not high. I am not drunk. I am not insane. I have thought about this, long and hard. I read a book not long ago; they mention that once a body hits terminal velocity, it would seem like the earth is moving quickly towards it, rather than the other way around. Freefall. What else is flight but that? A split second of pain, an unmeasurable instant of agony, is worth ten seconds of that kind of freedom, I think. It's the only freedom I'm likely to get. I feel trapped, caged by my life like an exotic bird from the Amazon. A dead-end job, a dead-end family, a dead-end life. Nobody knows me, no matter how often I told them or how loud I shouted it out. My potential is unrealized. What it is potential for, I don't know, but surely I had some. Had, past tense. Again I look over the edge. I can see clearly all the way down, make out the ripples on the river that winds its way through the canyon. It's beautiful, and I take a moment to admire the scene. I click my beak, considering, and leap before I can think it over again. I spread my wings, and fly. For ten seconds.