Unique

Word count: Approx. 650
Notes/Warnings: None.

“Now, what makes me unique and different from others? Shoot, that’s an easy one!

“Among other things—like my smile and my knack for charming any animal born, from puppies to pythons—what makes me unique is . . . I can control the wind.

“Yep. You heard me right: I can control the wind, no matter where it’s coming from or where it’s going. I can make it change directions, stop altogether, turn into a dust devil—sit, heel, fetch, or roll over and play dead.

“What? Don’t believe me? Aw, well, that’s okay. I suppose it’s just as well you don’t. If anyone ever did believe me, or caught me at it, I’d be locked up in a government facility faster than I could say whirlwind.

“Wait! Where ya goin’? You haven’t even heard the best part, yet! Bein’ that I’m this powerful Air Mage—that’s what I call myself—I can not only control what the wind does, but what it is—what it’s made of. See, I could spring up a wind made entirely of methane, if I wanted. Or one of pure oxygen . . . get everyone as high as kites.

“Wait—where’re ya goin’? Don’t run from me! I could stir up a wind right now that’d stop you dead in your tracks! I could blow you from here to Kingdom come!”

As I quickly hustle down the park path and away from the crazy homeless guy in the dirty wheelchair, around me, a sudden flurry of wind springs up, seeming to come from all directions at once. It blows my skirt up and into my face, and throws crunchy autumn leaves and dirt around my stockinged legs.

“Get back here!” the guy calls from a little ways behind me, and I start to run, even though I can’t see over my skirt. I run because he may be crazy but, I realize as my slip whips around my legs, I also sort of believe what he said. In that moment, the wind forcing my skirt into mouth and nose, and tossing my windbreaker around my torso—showing my underwear to the world—I believe that he is some kind of . . . Air Mage. . . .

“Come back!” the Air Mage keeps shouting as I finally get my skirt down around my neck, and just in time to narrowly avoid colliding with an elm tree. I spot a small copse of the same not far from me and make for it. As I do, the winds begin to dissipate some, as well as the Air Mage’s shouts. Now they don’t sound thundering and commanding . . . just pathetic and lonely . . . and like he might be crying.

I pause amongst the elms to catch my breath and straighten my clothes. My plans for eating my bagged lunch—which I’d dropped back at the bench where the Air Mage had approached me—are completely forgotten. I suppose he can have it, if he likes chicken salad sandwiches and apple sauce.

Indeed, when I peer from behind an elm to look back the way I’d come, I see the Air Mage, his shoulders slumped in defeat, reaching down to pick up my dropped lunch. He nearly falls out of his chair before he gets it, and when he does, he clutches it to himself, his shoulders shaking as he looks down, wiping his eyes.

For a moment, I feel bad. Quite horribly bad, and I almost go back.

Almost.

But then he throws his head back and laughs, eerie and howling, wind whipping up around him and blowing his raggedy clothes and unkempt hair into a frenzy.

“I am an Air Mage!” he yells, like a wolf’s angry, lonely call. “And I reap the whirlwind, bitch!”

Hairs on the back of my neck standing on end, I wait till the Air Mage has busied himself with my lunch before backing out of the trees carefully, quietly, slowly. And then I run.

END