When I Could Fly
A non-autobiographical story, with a little help from some friends. Simon Brooks © 2026
Some of you know that fellow storyteller, Paul Strickland and I are good friends. And I love Paul’s work greatly. He is a true innovator. On the 15th February, I sat at my desk to help Paul run a Zoom workshop he was presenting. (In truth he didn’t need help, it was simply a bit of weight off his shoulders so he could concentrate on what he was saying and doing.) One of the things he asked about in his workshop was where do you have good ideas? Or bad ideas? Any ideas! My idea place is somewhere quiet, and often the woods, with my dog, Moe. She makes good company, even if she sometimes stops and sniffs Every Blade Of Grass, tree trunk, rock, fallen limb, even if it is covered in snow, which is everything here, right now!
As I was walking in the woods at the end of February, an idea popped in my head. I pulled out my phone, opened Google Docs, hit the record button, and began chatting to myself. No one else was around and we see people talking to themselves (on their hidden phones) all the time. It seems the days of spotting nutters because they talked to themselves is over. Everyone does it. Maybe we are all nutters! Once I got home, I looked it over and began to re-write it, make it better (I hope), and a bit longer. It was sticky in the middle, so I asked my wife to look at it. I re-wrote it again. I still wasn’t happy with it, so I called Paul for a hand. Or really, an eye! Another bit of help came from Tatiana Brainerd, a friend. After working on this story for the last few weeks, the story now, I hope, is something you might enjoy.
When I Could Fly
an original story by Simon Brooks
I was quite young when I first realized that I could fly. That was decades and decades ago. It didn’t start with wings or anything like that; it started in dreams. Recurring dreams. It was easy at first, but then as I got older it became harder to fly. I don’t think it is because I am much heavier now than I was, I think it is more likely that I am so far away from my childhood. Maybe that’s why. And aren’t we supposed to use whatever skills we have to do good in one form or another? I never did that. I just ran away and puddle-jumped. I think I can still fly over wide streams, and over fallen trees, but then even that’s tough now, exhausting even. I look back at it now, and wonder if I could have done something with this ability.
When I was little, my parents would argue, in my dreams and reality. In dreams I would scream to stop their fights, but no words would come out of my mouth. In frustration, to stop the fighting, I would throw myself down the stairs, but I never hit one single step. I would float over them tumbling through the air, and at the bottom would straighten out like Peter Pan or Wendy, the front door would open itself, and out I would go.
As a child I learned to lucid dream, although I didn’t know it had a name. I would soar upwards over the town, looking down on the lights that lit up Worcester, I would fly over friend’s houses but they were never outside playing. I sometimes flew over the River Severn, and out towards the Malvern Hills before returning home, flying in through some open window, or somehow squeezing through a keyhole, and into my bed in between the sheets. But these at first, were just dreams. No one knew. It was my secret. My escape. From my room, down the short landing, fly down the stairs, the front door would open and off I would go. That was always how I got out of the house, in my lucid dreams.
Then, after school, one day, I was playing in Gheluvelt Park. I could see a bully who liked to pick on me heading towards the playground. I was having fun on the roundabout, trying to launch myself into outer space and knew the bully would try to launch me for real into the nearby filthy stream. The path to the playground, back then, wound its way through bushes and trees to get to the swings and the slide that was a hundred feet tall with a turret on top. I thought about hiding up there, but then as I looked at him, anger and fear in equal measures came to me; I found myself lifting off the ground slowly.
Looking around I saw I was on my own and the bully had temporarily disappeared behind the foliage. I closed my eyes and wished myself higher and found, on opening my eyes, I was about thirty feet above the ground, level with the tops of some of the trees, well above the old pump house. I was wobbling in the air. My heart was very much in my stomach and in my mouth at the same time and I was not sure how I felt about that. I remember I grabbed hold of a branch to steady myself. Dream flying is very different to flying for real. I was afraid of heights, ironically, but did not let this bother me too much given the circumstances that a bully was after me.
I took deep breaths, and leaned forward. I did not fall down through the sky, I just tilted forward and slowly drifted over the trees. Beneath me, I watched the bully looking around for me. Of course, he never thought to look up. He spun around a few times searching, and then ran up the slide, which in itself was no mean feat, being as steep as it was. He bolted around the pump house, and between the trees that edged the stream. I watched as he ran down one path and then another, and tried not to laugh. Checking my surroundings I grabbed hold of a branch and used it to push off, and floated my way towards the band stand, the gazebo where the brass band used to play surrounded by the pond. It looked like a floating gazebo. I lowered myself down next to it, unseen, on the lawn - not in the water, and quickly made my way home. I really didn’t want to see that bully ever again. Anti-climatic, I know. That was the first time. I was probably ten.
I wasn’t sure how it happened at first and it would take me by surprise, but I learned how to control it. For a while I didn’t go as high as I had that first time, keeping fairly close to the ground, for fear of falling. And the fear of heights and I never flew when I thought people might see me; I would take to the skies when I was on my own, or at night.
It seemed to me flying was something special and something I shouldn’t just do, abuse, if you will. If bullies at school were after me, I would run to the storeroom where the window opened and would fly off, or pretend to climb down the brick wall if people were outside and could see me. On holidays, when Mum and I hiked in woods and forests and came to a stream, if I was ahead on my own, I would leap across the water, but really, I was flying. I would make it look like I was a pretty good jumper if other people were around! It was fun. As I got older and was hiking on my own, if I was in a forest and heard someone heading my way, I would slowly lift up, float up to see who they were, or what it might be. Sometimes I would spot deer, or at dusk, badgers or foxes, and I would float above watching them, not noticing me. And I never told a soul about it. It was my secret. When my heart was broken for the first time, it happened to be raining so in my teenage angst, flew that night, in the rain to wash the pain away. I know. Sounds melodramatic. But you remember what that first lost love feels like.
I moved away from home as soon as I could. I got a job in London and worked in pubs and then got employment that paid better in sales. But there were always people about so unless I left the city I didn’t fly. Then walking to work, I found myself tightly packed with other commuters, marching down the sidewalk. I felt hemmed in, but began to float just a little, and then a little more. My feet were barely a few inches off the ground, and I am not tall, so no one noticed. I slid into spaces which took me where I wanted to go, no feet to trip over, and bumping into other people mostly stopped. It became a dance movement, but not one of my dance partners knew they were my dance partners. That’s when and how I met my wife. I think she thought something was up the second time we were “walking” together at rush hour. Packed sidewalk, people mostly going in the same direction; the same people, same time of day. After we had bumped into each other a few times, we got together for a coffee. I didn’t tell her I could fly, but later, my wife (yes, we got married), found out about it. We were both disappointed to discover that I could not carry her with me - so no, I wasn’t like Superman.
We never had kids. That was on me. We thought about adopting but didn’t. Maybe if we’d had our own children they might have been able to fly, too. It seemed neither of us wanted kids like some people do, and so we threw ourselves into work and travel. To be honest, I pretty much stopped flying then. There seemed no point. Jeanne couldn’t fly.
Now that I am in my early nineties, I rarely think about flying. I haven’t had a special life, other than being able to fly. You would think I would be a superhero or something, but no. A corporate job for most of my life, did really well financially, found my wife who I am still married to, read books, traveled a lot, did some fun things, and helped my mum out until she passed away.
I am in the woods today, with Jacko, my old lab, out for a walk. Jeanne can’t get out. We used to hike a lot. And not just locally but all over the world. That was back in the day! Now, I take the dog for walks. He’s just as old in dog years as I am in human years. Both of us have dodgy hips, and my knees are shot. The ground, right now, is covered with snow which makes for a laborious walk. We’re enjoying the walk, don’t get me wrong, it’s just not an easy walk. Nothing seems to be easy these days. The snow is sticking to the bottom of my shoes, or more accurately, the spikes on my boots, like congealed mud making them heavier and heavier, making flying seem even more impossible. Even if I thought I could. Holding onto my hiking sticks, I stomp-scrape my boots clear and keep going. Jacko has bursts of speed, and then slows down. He runs down an incline to a bridge and I follow. Walking, not running. The bridge is fairly wide, just crosses a stream, but the tramped down path, not so big. It’s only as narrow as a pair of snow shoes. I leap up to fly across, but stumble, and fall, the sticks splay out. Luckily the snow is damp, deep, and soft, so no injuries. Jacko comes over and licks my face. We laugh about it. I suppose I am not even a puddle-jumper anymore.
The sun is wonderful. It doesn’t make the temperatures much warmer, but it feels good. I struggle to get back up and eventually succeed. Fallen golden aspen leaves melt their way into small pockets of snow. The leaves appear framed. I wonder if this is my last walk this way; is this my last traverse in the woods? Jacko takes off in between the trees following some side trail. He’s not coming back, so I follow him, pulling the leash from my pocket, thinking I’ll hook him up. I am too tired to be following him everywhere. We need to get back. I click my tongue but he sits and waits, until I get too close then he wanders off some more. Now he’s bounding well off the trail like a squirrel or rabbit following some scent. Where does he get his energy from?
As I walk after Jacko, needing my hiking sticks more, I take a couple of photographs and send them to my wife. Jeanne likes to see where I am on the trail, and photos of Jacko. For a short moment, a few seconds or so, it feels as if she is walking with me, by my side or in front or behind, wherever, but close. I feel myself reaching out to hold her hand. It feels good, a reminder of when we were much younger and would regularly hike together.
There are the golden aspen leaves again. Jacko seems to be following a line of them. They are so bright in the white snow. I can see the line of leaves lead to a clearing and in the clearing they start to spiral in; a huge incomplete spiral.
I am so tired. All this walking through snow without tracks, other than those of my dog; it is wearing me out.
Jacko turns now. He’s sitting in the snow waiting for me. I join him and sit down next to him, exhausted. My heart rattles fast. Goober dog, I tell him, ruffling his ears. I need a rest. I look at the aspen leaves again. They are in a spiral. And Jacko and I are pretty much in the center, as if the leaves led us here. Pulling my hood over my head, I lie down in the snow and Jacko comes and curls up with me. We keep each other warm. The sun is shining down on us and it feels so good. It is so bright. I close my eyes and drop my arm around Jacko. It’s almost like falling asleep. The warmth of a comfy bed. Snuggled with Jacko, the light seems to get brighter.
I feel I am being lifted. I feel like I am floating.
It feels good.
A short story by Simon Brooks, 17th March, 2026
In the woods with Moe, a photograph by Simon Brooks © 2026
beautiful story, thanks for making my Friday morning.