Kira-May

• Monique LaNauzè, Grade 7
• Short Story
• 2016

The main event of Kira-May’s summer: She jumped off her rooftop and broke two bones. What she was thinking, you might ask. Well the answer was: nothing.
Summer was sprinkled in the air and the smell of freshly mown grass was dabbled in Kira-May’s nose. The birds were in the air, chirruping, and the sky looked so inviting you could almost reach out and grab it. Clouds were swirled into the perfect, solid blue canvas. Kira-May sat on her rooftop, curled into a ball. Her chin rested on her denim-clad knees. The sky was displayed around her like ice cream at the ice cream shop. A bird floated past, a black, fluttering dot on the peaceful jumble of blue and white. She wondered what it was like to fly. With the blue and the white a blur around you, no windows or metal walls between you. She wanted to catch a glimpse of the heavens. She wanted to hold a piece of the sky and take it home and bring it to momma. She wanted to be a bird. She wanted to fly. Without thinking, without worrying, without considering, she unfurled from the foetal position. The roof seemed to shake underneath her, encouraging her to go. The sky invited her. The ground—she hadn’t gotten to the ground yet. The birds were whistling, “Come along!” and a cloud saved her a spot. Kira-May closed her eyes. Her bare, crooked toes were aligned perfectly with the ledge of the roof. Her chest moved up and down ever so slightly whenever she took a breath. In. Out. In. Out. One corner of her lips turned up slowly and slightly.
One, two, three . . .
She took a daring lunge into the heavens—she flailed her arms and screamed, “Woohoo!” The clouds whistled and the sky rumbled for a girl named Kira-May. The main event of Kira-May’s summer: She learned how to fly.