Young Writers Society

It took everything Abel had to not scream in public. Ducking his head, he channeled all that energy into pelting down the sidewalk like a malfunctioning cruiser, barely dodging innocents along the way.

“Hey, Abel!” Mrs. Bresten’s voice brought him to a stumbling halt. She pressed her gloves onto the window sill and pushed a clump of greasy bangs back. It flopped back over her forehead. “Ah, well, my forehead’s sooty anyway,” she muttered, before redirecting her attention to him. “You look awfully cheery today. Something happened?” From that eye-crinkling smile she wore, she knew exactly what happened.

“Of course!” He wasn’t passing up a chance to brag. “I,” he began, whipping out a gray paper, “have officially graduated from the Caelum University for Flight!” Abel grinned, well aware that passing strangers that could hear his declaration. There was a lot more that he wanted to say, but he retained some self-awareness; that meant no monologues in the middle of a busy street.

Mrs. Bresten laughed and tapped the window sill, indicating for him to come closer. When he only eyed her calloused hands, she sighed and rested her chin in her palm. “What, no victory hair musses?” Before Abel could start rambling about hygiene and appearances, there was a shout from deeper within the repair shop. The call’s contents were lost to Abel. Mrs. Bresten, though, seemed to catch the gist of it and stood up straight, stuffing her gloves on and pulling thick, scratched-up goggles back over her eyes. “Sorry, Abel, I can’t offer you tea today. Your school may be the best one around, but it’s not the only one graduating. Lots of kids are looking to have their gear back in commission.” With a wink, she disappeared. The window slammed shut behind her.

Pressing his lips together, Abel held his certificate up. There were a few creases that hadn’t been there when he received it. A shame, but nothing that would lose the paper its place on Abel’s wall. Gripping the paper’s opposite corners between his ring finger and thumb, Abel pivoted on his heel and continued the march home.

Since Abel had spent a shameful amount of time telling everyone he knew about his graduation, the mad scramble to return home after a long day of work had long since died down. Cobblestone was once again visible from beneath leather soles and gaudy bootstraps. Even with the city signaling for the day’s end, the summer sun remained high in the sky, casting a shimmer onto the street’s worn stones and allowing poor, lost tourists a few hours’ reprieve in finding their motels. Long days were good for him, Abel noted. It meant more time tomorrow to familiarize himself with his ship and to get to know his partner. He’d have to draw up a schedule once he got home.

The click-clacking of hooves from somewhere around the bend signaled the arrival of a carriage, so he paused. A gray mare walked by, dragging along a mahogany box that did little to mute the shouts coming from within. They were probably lost. Siren’s grandeur and its status as the capitol of Caelum came with endless roads that snaked around shops stacked like pancakes and over ridiculously steep hills, which made it impossible to see where one was going. People crammed in anyway, desperate for a chance at the romanticized city life.

Suddenly, the entire cross-section Abel was at was cast in shadow. Ignoring the sounds of bewilderment around him, he glanced up.

Of course it was an airship. This one wasn’t too big, he mused, as it didn’t even have a deck. He would have pegged it as a student ship if not for the fact that its envelope was painted a bright blue with some golden symbol on its sides- it was difficult to tell from this perspective. First off, student ships were the rather miserable colors of white and brown. Secondly, there was no way any educated, self-respecting pilot nor navigator would ever paint their ships blue.

Readjusting his grip on his certificate, Abel quickened his pace with a huff. Blue meant camouflage. Camouflage meant accidents. And what kind of lovely day didn’t have a flaming heap raining down on you from the skies? “If you’re extra lucky, the gondola may even be made of pine,” he muttered, shaking his head.

People were stupid. Even himself, to an extent. Of course, after a while of negative intelligence levels, it just became a contest of who was closer to zero- and who could appear the smartest to others.

Call him arrogant, if you will. He certainly didn’t deny it.

Another turn. Paseo Street, Maple Avenue, Pinesberry. He knew the path well enough that the signs were unnecessary. As he walked past the Ivory Bakery, it was somewhat disappointing that no whiff of freshly baked breads and sweets greeted him through the ornate door. Sometimes, the owners kept the window or entrance open to tempt potential customers. Other days, like today, the stagnant undercurrent of smoke, oil, and other pleasant fuels was too prominent to risk exposing their pastries to. Pushing himself to walk faster, he tried to remember what was left in the pantry. Mother would probably be working late again, so he couldn’t wait for her to bring home dinner.

To distract himself, Abel recalled the name that had been called out along with his at the graduation ceremony. Cain Noriega, huh? A foreign last name, definitely, but its exact origin was unclear. It didn’t sound Xingese, but it might have just been the result of an odd translation. Possibly Glycian.

Frowning, Abel cocked his head. “Noriega, Noriega….” Then, he bit his lip and swept the question out of his mind.

He’d find out tomorrow.