Malia
Flying through the night sky felt like slipping into a dream she’d forgotten she used to have. Malia soared above the world, cool and sharp wind streaming across her body. Her body, or whatever counted as one now, was not flesh and bone. More like a spectral mist. She rode a visible shimmering ribbon of air she sensed as much as saw, letting the current boost her air speed. No inflight movie or complementary diet soda, but the exhilaration of flight was more than a fair trade to get away from TSA, overcrowded terminals, endless waiting, and the expense of commercial air travel. This flight was free as well as exhilarating.
She dipped lower, catching another current that curled beneath her like a living thing. The sensation was intoxicating. She’d always envied birds, envied the way they could simply lift off and leave everything behind. The sky wasn’t empty. The wind was alive, textured, layered with invisible highways she could slip into and ride like a surfer catching waves.
She drank in the view, taking in all the lights of the city, the traveling cars, the planes further overhead, the birds darting nearby, and the stars blanketing the sky like diamonds in the sky. Living in New York she’d forgotten how breathtaking the night sky could be without the city’s artificial glow drowning out the heavenly bodies.
Her Bronx studio came into view, perched on the second floor of a 19th?century townhouse. As a modest, single bedroom, it was perfect for her and her artistic needs. The kitchen counter with its lone barstool, the loveseat facing the 46?inch TV, the painter’s drop cloths swallowing the living room floor, canvases leaning like half?finished thoughts. The place smelled of acrylics and turpentine and the faint citrus cleaner she used once a week when she remembered to do some ‘adulting’.
Her daughter, Rihanna, was thousands of miles away studying at the University of Hawaii. Malia missed her, of course, but the New York solitude taught her how to be alone without being lonely. The city was loud enough to fill any silence. Plus, she got to go to Hawaii at least once a year. Who wouldn’t love that?
As she neared the city, the air flow grew erratic, currents flowing chaotic in every direction. Eddies twisted, pressure shifted, turbulence buffeted her from every direction. She forced herself forward, hopping from one current to the next until her strength finally began to fray. Two hours of nonstop flight would do that, even to a…whatever she was now.
Am I alive? Dead? Something in between?
She hadn’t looked behind her once. Hadn’t wondered if anyone below had seen her.
What would it matter? The guy in the park had seen me. That alone complicated the whole “ghost” theory. Ghosts weren’t supposed to be visible. Or tangible. Or capable of getting winded.
A doctor might’ve answered the question, but she imagined the chain reaction instantly: hushed phone calls, government vans, men in suits, endless tests.
“Well, they can’t poke and prod me at least,” she muttered as she drifted.
Relief washed over her when familiar streets came into view. Gauging directions and navigating from a previously unknown perspective was difficult, but she concluded flying was infinitely better than driving even with exhaustion.
Finally, the first part of her townhouse came into view. The roof had been converted into a cozy terrace complete with lounge chairs, string lights, a tiki bar she almost never used. Tonight, though, called for whiskey. Neat.
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Can I even drink?
She floated behind the bar, grabbed Glenfiddich 18, and poured a glass. The splash sounded normal. The weight of the bottle felt normal. She inhaled the oaky scent, catching mild fruitiness and spice, and when she swallowed, the burn slid down her throat and pooled warmly in her invisible stomach.
For a moment, she felt alive.
Can a ghost get drunk? She laughed, drained the glass, poured another, and collapsed into a lounge chair. She’d caught a buzz up here plenty of times, but never as a ghost-thing. The terrace had always been her sanctuary. A place to decompress after long days, to paint under the moonlight, to sip whiskey and pretend she wasn’t stressed about bills or deadlines or the ache of missing her daughter.
At the moment everything felt normal. The night air carried a mix of savory cooking and the sharp tang of nearby garbage bins. You got used to it, and some even loved it after years of knowing nothing else. The comfort of the lounge chair welcomed her, so she relaxed. Music blared from a passing car. It sounded beautiful. It sounded like home.
She closed her eyes, sipping slowly. Maybe I’m not a ghost. Maybe I’m a…fairy? Sprite or something? I don’t know what the hell I am.
A form caught the light casting a shadow over her. She snapped her eyes open.
A diamond-shaped figure of white mist hovered at the edge of her vision. She turned sharply causing it to recoil like a startled animal. The mist glowed with a faint light about the same brightness as a desk lamp. Above what she assumed was its head, glowing text unfurled.
Name: Sylphie Mist Type: Air Aberration You can see her. She can see you. She is made of light and water vapor compacted into a diamond form. She expects you to guide her, since you are the Air Elemental and all that. Level: 1
Malia blinked. Hard. Several times.
Before she could decide whether she was hallucinating, another interesting creature drifted into view. This one resembled a puff of thick vapor, like someone had exhaled from a vape pen.
Name: Wisp Type: Air Aberration Mostly made of air. Remember when you vaped all those years ago, and you would just waft away the huge plumes of vapor? Don’t do that to a Wisp. Level: 1
Great. I’m not only dead—I’m crazy. And now I want a vape.
Both creatures hovered expectantly, as if waiting for orders. Then a third figure peeked from behind the stairwell. A tiny pixie?shaped being, part plant, part vapor, delicate as a watercolor fluttered her wings like petals caught in a breeze.
Name: Aeris Sprite Type: Air Aberration Aeris Sprite is imbued with empathetic and healing powers and abilities. Aeris wants to serve the Air Elemental.
There it was again. Air Elemental.
“Do you think I’m some kind of Elemental?” Malia asked.
Aeris drifted closer and nodded.
“You can understand me?”
Another shy nod.
“Can you talk?”
A small, mournful shake of the head.
“Damn. Guess we’re playing twenty questions.” Aeris tilted her head, confused.
Malia sighed and turned to the other two. “Can each of you understand me?”
Wisp expanded, then contracted. Sylphie pulsed brighter once.
“I’ll take that as a yes. So, expand then contract and a bright pulse means ‘yes’.”
Wisp expanded, then contracted. Sylphie pulsed.
I need a question to get a negative response…
“Okay.” She set her whiskey aside. Since both of the creatures were stark white, she decided what her next question would be. “Sylphie, Wisp, are you all black?”
Sylphie dimmed first then went back to normal brightness. Wisp contracted then expanded back to normal size.
“Perfect. Now the big question for all three of you. Am I dead?”
All three responded with a synchronized no.
She stared at them, heart, or whatever she had, thudding. “I’m not dead,” she whispered. “Then…am I the Air Elemental?”
Three affirmative responses.
What does that even mean? What am I supposed to do as an elemental. Why me?
She pondered her situation for another moment, considering. Then she asked them, “Do you guys want to work with me? To help me?”
Again, three affirmative responses. Sylphie seemed brighter and more excited than the others.
“I guess three non-talking creatures is better than a cat that talks too much. Okay then…”
A breeze curled around her ankles, swirling upward like a cat brushing against her legs. The air itself seemed to lean toward her, attentive, waiting.
“Huh.” She leaned back, stunned. “How about that.”
The wind answered with a soft, playful gust, as if welcoming her home.
