Airborn

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He was an American teen from the sticks of South Dakota, with an unexplained passion for subtitled French New Wave films. In his spare time, he polished imaginary moon rocks found on hiking trips to the base of the Black Hills. People called him a retard, among other things.

Words unkind to a sensitive ear.

They laughed when he’d fly home from school, lumbering downhill at top speed, accompanying his dogfight with fighter jet sound effects, nosedives, engine roars, missle lock, and a sonorous rat-tat-tat-tat of machine gun fire. The sun roared in his streamlined shadow while he remained aerially engaged, completely and utterly breathless.