Listen to a podcast of Ryan Dilbert’s “Eyes Turned Skywards”
While supposed to be studying for her American History exam, Sherri invented a rocket fuel out of Nyquil. She held the sloshing, crimson liquid in a tin and marveled. Her roommate Andy ate KFC at his computer. It wasn’t until Sherri flew out the window, until her jetpack exhaust set fire to the rug, that Andy raised his head.
“Sherri?” he said, “Sherri?”
Sherri zipped through sharp, cold air. Her pixie cut waved like thin, brown flags. Students heading to class saw her zoom by; her frock coat flapped about her knees. Most prayed neither terrorists nor aliens were involved.
Sherri thought of her father telling her she wasn’t smart enough in Physics or in anything. The campus whirred beneath her.
Sherri flew over libraries and quads, then factories, then houses, then pig farms. Her cheeks were numb and bugs shot into her face. When she saw a rocky island, she decided to land.
Blackbirds glared from spindly branches. The sun stabbed through ashy indigo clouds. Weak-purple crabs crawled over boulders. Sherri followed a murky, green river into the heart of the island. Her mind turned to the drawbridges she could construct here, the catapults, the parabolic compasses. She sucked the fruit from a guava, seeds stuck between her teeth. As she wandered she was sure her worst worry in this place would be sunburn. Goblins stepped out from behind leaning palm trees. Sherri suddenly wasn’t so sure. Their teeth looked like sharpened typewriter keys. Their skin was hollow, red wood. They clicked their tongues as they surrounded her. Sherri tried to fly; her jetpack puttered.
It was out of fuel.
Unarmed and out of shape, she didn’t stand a chance. Her frock coat—snug in sprinkling snow, was now suffocating. Sweat slid along her sides. Their circle closed. What began as a scream turned into a horrible roar. The goblins scattered. Sherri followed the way back and came to the shore.
The tide brought an empty condom wrapper to her feet. A frayed tire, a stick of Old Spice, the tongue from a running shoe, enough garbage for Sherri to fashion a flying machine. As she worked, the goblins approached; Sherri roared, they retreated. She made rotor blades of plastic rings from six-packs of cola. Roar. The hull was shaped with glass from melted bottles. The goblins grew less fearful. Sherri concocted fuel out of fish bones, lifted off just as the goblins leapt. Their claws screeched against the glass.
It took all night to fly back to campus. It was just before 8 a.m. when Sherri reached Ames Hall. She could still make it to the test on time. And she would have, if not for the Kite Festival. The Kite Appreciation Society was holding their annual festival in the quad. Flying dragons, owls, hawks and Mickey Mouses tangled around her. Realizing she was going to crash, she loosened her whole body. She opened her palms, widened her legs and slung her head back—ready.
The flying machine crumpled into the side of Ames Hall. Fire shot from the debris. Sherri crawled out. Her face was black with smoke and her riding boots were sprinkled with blood. She limped into the lecture hall as those inside fled. Empty desks were all she found.
The fire department sprayed down the building. Sherri stayed inside, took the test. Where she was asked to write about F.D.R. she wrote about teleportation and earmuffs. She imagined pressing her hands against the fuzzy pink muffs and opening her eyes on a ship sailing across the Flores Sea.
