Collage, Soar, by Rob Kistner 

via Writer’s Island 

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Soar

They called it Soar. It was the new online game that was fast becoming a rage across the cyber world. It was easy and exciting. You had to give a shape to qualities you thought would help you to rise, ascend, fly …, and then post your entry online. Simple. So they did, the cyber junkies, giving form and body to hope, faith, belief, trust, support, love …, and the structures that resulted quickly rose as more and still more people joined in the game, making cyber space a beautiful place. Till one fateful day. Somehow, somewhere a virus crept into the game, corrupting the software of love and hope and slowly destroying the structures that these values had spawned and given birth to. It arose out of envy, deceit, intolerance and hatred. It crept in slyly, quietly spreading its tentacles into the game and, like the game, it was also named Soar.

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Flight of Fancy

When Sheila walked into the studio at 4:30 that afternoon, holding a tray carrying tea and biscuits in her hands, the painting was still resting on the easel. ‘Teatime, dear,’ she said without a glance at Vicky’s chair, drawn as she was by the painting. After discharge from hospital three months ago, Vicky spent most of his time in this little room he liked to call his studio. Painting was his life and his imagination took him wherever he wanted to go.  

Sheila placed the tray on the table that held his paint tubes and brushes, ‘Good work, Vicky,’ she said leaning toward the canvas, compelled to take a closer look. Were the clouds actually floating? What was the sudden movement that had caught her eye? ‘Vicky’s work is so realistic!’ she sighed happily, proud of her son who painted so well. She peered at the canvas, now a shadow passing across her face. The picture looked somehow incomplete. The sky was still enchantingly blue, the clouds comfortingly downy but, wait, where was the balloon soaring elegantly into the sky; surely it was there yesterday?! ‘Vicky, you painted out the balloon?’ she asked bewildered, turning her head to where he usually sat. But there was no reply.

The painting still stood on the easel, the truant balloon seemed to have flown away, and Vicky’s wheelchair was curiously empty.   

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