Leap Time
by Sarah Morayati (2008)
Genres: Fantasy


action: %
response: Nobody told you stardom would be this boring. You thought the five-year wait just to get into the sky was bad, but at least you had an earth to occupy yourself with, humans doddering around like dust - rather amusing dust. You haven't seen humans on the moon in forever. You've seen nothing, in fact, but the same dull rocks in the same musty craters, and the stars who made it to the sky saying don't worry, it'll be your turn soon, everyone gets their chance, stay pretty, you should really shine more.

You have to admit, though, he was right. Your turn came. A leap second, your time to plunge off this rock into their sky, stop clocks, fulfill a few wishes if you have to, and dazzle everyone who watches - that, or miss the landing and live the rest of your life swaddled by a cold ocean. Your debut: all the stars do it.

The sky is cold. Midnight is soon. Leap time.

Well, it's private, at least. They assured you of this. It's a crumbly gray hole dug into a gray field, yes, and the air's choked with dust. You can't move without kicking up a new cloud and blinding yourself for a few seconds, not that there'd be much to miss. But at least people can't see you here. Even if someone down below were to look at the sky when you were out of your trench, they'd merely see a shiny speck. Windows get them all the time. Nothing to dwell upon.
action: You look at myself
response: They could have given you more time to prepare. The fringe in your hair is all knotted and doesn't resemble clouds or gossamer so much as lint strings.
Your wings are all wrong; against even the slightest breeze they'd split like tissue. Your face is clouded over with that miserable moon dust. It still shows, no matter how much iridescent paint you use. Fortunately, humans aren't star connoisseurs.
action: You examine the dust
response: You live in this: gray filth which gets into everything and makes it dull.
action: You look at the wings
response: They give every star a pair of wings - ornaments, yes, but the useful kind. They glisten when you flap them; from below, it looks like twinkling. A neat trick, that. Unfortunately, your time came before you could grow them out enough. You can only glow a little bit.
action: Glow
response: You flutter your wings a bit, working up a pretty glow, then immediately worry. What if someone saw you? The moon isn't supposed to shine like this, not even on New Year's.
action: You fly
response: You lift your wings and, with painstaking effort, flap into the air. You're horribly out of practice, though, and without any real reason to hang around in the sky, are forced to touch down.
action: Sleep
response: If a star fell asleep, she'd quickly burn holes through her skin. So they don't.
action: Sing
response: Stars sing beautifully in movies, but Hollywood didn't take into account that vocal muscles atrophy just like everything else. You sound more like a dying yak than an angel.
action: Xyzzy
response: You whisper the magic word, eliciting not even so much as a shudder from your wings. But then, you expected that. You're the magical thing; you don't get to use it yourself.
action: Dance
response: You waddle back and forth, waving your wings in a parody of dancing.
action: You think
response: Visions of planetary collisionsswim through your head.
action: You wait
response: Time passes.
action: You look around
response: Well, it's private, at least. They assured you of this. It's a crumbly gray hole dug into a gray field, yes, and the air's choked with dust. You can't move without kicking up a new cloud and blinding yourself for a few seconds, not that there'd be much to miss. But at least people can't see you here. Even if someone down below were to look at the sky when you were out of your trench, they'd merely see a shiny speck. Windows get them all the time.
action: Up
response: You flutter out of the crater, mussying your streamers a bit on the dust walls.

They name everything up here like they would down below. So this area, silent and blank in all directions, they call a field, despite the lack of vegetation. There's nothing around under the horizon but gray dirt, and flat sky, and you. The only thing breaking the monotony is something raised to the west, and your crater, a few steps away. Above you, stars stand in their places, too far away to recognize; looming in front of them all is the earth, almost close enough to touch. There's no coverage from it; anyone could see you from there, a shiny speck tossed into the dust like something misplaced.. Perhaps people won't mind. The moon is shining awfully bright tonight, they'll say, resuming their affairs, your light as sanction. It's the night for it.
action: You examine the earth
response: You expected it to be more spherical, but it's not; more like the cross-section of an egg. A lot smaller than you thought, too, and less blue. It doesn't give you much hope for your landing, that's for sure.
action: You look at the stars
response: The lucky ones who succeeded in their leap and earned their place in the sky, to shine forever for all to see. You fight back a pang of jealousy.
action: You go west
response: The field parts here, unexpectedly, to accommodate a small platform. They call it a mesa, the geographical term, but there's nothing natural about it. The slope leading up is too carved, too precise, and the edges are cut too well against the night sky. It seems to repel everything; the dust is gathered in a moat around it, the craters leave a perimeter, and even the stars duck away from it. It's a clear jump, from there, up to the earth. Or so the others say. Your site continues a ways to the east.
action: Leap
response: You arch your back, just like they taught you, lift your arms, face, chest, and leap, but you can't get enough height. Maybe if there was something to stand on.
action: You stand on the mesa
response: You flutter up onto the center of the pad. The sky looks so much... bigger from up here.
action: Leap
response: They told you the first leap would be the hardest; you'd get used to it, it'd be easy. Small comfort; the more you look at the earth, the more it seems to scoot away, taunting you. Now or never, you guess. You arch your back, just like they taught you; lift your arms, face, chest; bend your knees, throw back your head, breath held and hands upon air; close your eyes, and leap.

The fringe on your head flares, catches the air, and you expand, lurching over the back of gravity and plummeting up, past the atmosphere, past gray and black and down into blue, clouds, tumbling, every part of you doused with glitter. It must look pretty from down there.

But they never mentioned this much tumbling, actually. They never told you what clouds could do. You didn't know they could bruise, or rattle you, or do anything, really, but hang static in the sky. It isn't working, you think, you're out of formation, you can't correct yourself or slow the descent. You don't have a star's chance in a black hole of surviving and there are buildings on your eyes.
action: Scream
response: You look around. Desolate. Nothing but a building and the sky you came from. You landed, but there's something itching at your back. Getting to your feet, you realize its source. You lost a wing coming down. You can't fly back without it. Wishes are out of the question, too - if anyone sees you like this, tattered and sore, it's over. Something else is strange, too. You feel it under your feet, something too supple below the ground. The earth isn't spinning like it should, and it's probably your fault. You've got to get back into the sky before they decide to kick you out of orbit.

Earth looked so much more... verdant from above. You'd forgotten that beneath the pearl blue and clouds, it looks more like this: square buildings stacked on concrete like boxes in a garage. The ground is cracked, as are the bricks of the building. Puddles have collected by the cracks, grayer than water should be. A sign by a metal door reads ~TRUCKS ONLY~, but it's far too late for any to be around; the door's closed anyway. Power lines stretch across the air, parceling off the stars lucky enough not to be here. In the distance, you see some dumpsters to the west. All in all, you'd prefer the bottom of the ocean.
action: You examine the wings
response: They give every star a pair of wings - ornaments, yes, but the useful kind. They glisten when you flap them; from below, it looks like twinkling. A neat trick, that. You've lost one of yours, though, and the other one isn't looking so great. Twinkling is out of the question.
action: You examine the door
response: One of those industrial doors that roll up and down, made of metal plates.
action: You open the door
response: That's already open.
action: You enter the building
response: There's no way in except the door, and it's firmly shut.

Everything's too still. The trees, the buildings, even the air. How much time was supposed to have passed by now?
action: You look at the puddles
response: It must have rained earlier. It'd explain all these puddles, still on the ground and leaving no crack empty.
action: You go west
response: Some powdery stardust spills from your fringe as you walk.

Nothing accentuates dingy concrete and abandoned buildings quite like dumpsters. There are three of them, and their odor hangs ripe in the air. The lot is empty of anything else but cement. A thatch of trees encroaches upon the ground to the west, and the lot continues to the east.
action: You look in the dumpsters
response: You root around in one of the dumpsters, steeling yourself against the stench. After a few miserable minutes, you come up with a battered snowglobe. Must've been damaged merchandise.
action: You examine the snowglobe
response: You've heard there's an art to snowglobe-making: finding or making beautiful baubles to nestle in a sweet winter scene. This snowglobe is a dented plastic ball. A bloated toy soldier squats among what looks suspiciously like crumpled paper. Lovely.
action: You check your inventory
response: You are carrying:
a snowglobe
action: Go west
response: Maybe "woods" is the wrong word. Even at this hour, you can tell that the trees are too sparse to deserve the label. Standing firewood, really, gray under a dark gray sky. There's not much else around but a barren parking lot to the east.

By a tree, a girl plays with something shiny.
action: You examine girl
response: A small girl - it's hard to tell age when you measure your life by the century. She has stiff -- almost sculpted -- brown curls and is dressed in what resembles a ruffly pink lampshade.

The girl looks up and sees you, fringe, paint, wing and all. "Hi," she says. "Are you an angel?"
action: You look at the girl
response: A small girl - it's hard to tell age when you measure your life by the century. She has stiff -- almost sculpted -- brown curls and is dressed in what resembles a ruffly pink lampshade.
action: Yes
response: "Yes," you lie, sheepishly. Your squawky voice seems to startle her, but the lie works.

"Oh. I'm Sylvia."
action: Hello
response: You've already had your greetings.
action: You look at shiny
response: It's shiny, with iridescent dust scattered across its surface. Kind of like your wing - wait. It is your wing. And she's got it.
action: You ask the girl for the wing
response: "Hey. That toy you're playing with? I really need that back. Like, now."

"I thought angels were supposed to be nice."
action: No
response: That was a rhetorical question.
action: You ask the girl about the wing
response: "Please. That's mine. It fell off when I... landed here. I can't fly without it."

"You can have it but can you grant me a wish?."
action: You ask the girl about the wish
response: "I can grant you a wish. You have a wish, right?"

Sylvia closes her eyes. "Snow," she intones. Damn. You were hoping it was something easy, like a pony. Something less noticeable.
action: You give the globe to the girl
response: "Here," you say. "You can have this."

Sylvia takes the snowglobe from your hands, dropping your wing. She peers at it, tapping the plastic a few times and flipping it over slowly. "I guess this is kind of like snow," she starts. "Thanks."
action: You take the wing
response: Taken.
action: You wear the wing
response: You press the wing to your back; instantly, it affixes itself to your skin, with small bursts of pain as it breaks the surface. Sylvia looks away, peeking every few seconds -- fortunately, there never was much blood in the process.

Once it's finished, you test the wings. Not as sturdy as before, certainly not pretty, but they should last for a flight or two.
action: Leap
response: You jump, like they taught you: every part of you poised, just like before. Without your wing, though, you don't get far.
action: About yourself
response: They could have given you more time to prepare. The fringe in your hair is all knotted and doesn't resemble clouds or gossamer so much as lint strings.
Your wings are all wrong; against even the slightest breeze they'd split like tissue. Your face is clouded over with that miserable moon dust. It still shows, no matter how much iridescent paint you use. Fortunately, humans aren't star connoisseurs.
action: You fly
response: You crouch low, spread your arms, then your wings, and leap into the air. Sylvia waves at your retreating form, silently.

The ascent is easy; you land on the moon's surface without a hitch. After that, it's another story. You heard judgment was tough. Every hour until the rulers arrive, you tug at your fringe and ruffle your wings anew, preening yourself until it doesn't look like you took a fall. Maybe they weren't watching that time.

Whatever you did, it worked. When they arrive, it's with nothing but praise. You're gorgeous, they said; leap time has never been better. And when they cast you into the sky, wingless and sparkling, it's all you can think of for millennia.