Promethea Read Free

surroundings. The crawling winter snow has been relentless in its perpetual annual quest, slowly claiming dominion over the city and its ancient rooftops. It offered benevolent refuge for those who wished to remain undetected, as long as the implied terms have been agreed. The runner blended flawlessly with his all-white backdrop, which bestowed upon the parkouring intruder the gift of anonymity, presenting him with a considerable advantage over the panting officers. He headed north through the searing chimneys of the former 13 th century castle and towards the wine-coloured clay tiled sloped roof of the Redouten Wing, obliging more reinforcements to pour in, hell-bent on his apprehension. The once darting men tussled against the new adverse hunt conditions. They tripped and toddled as their target dashed through the towering scattered brick chimneys. Their bodies faltered and their eyesight played tricks, even the mere act of tracking him proved almost impossible. The circumstances may have already been harshly dire, yet there was still quite a wide margin for further dismay: The pursued man had unexpectedly completely vanished from their field of vision only to reappear almost instantly a hundred meters away, breaking conventional laws of physics for the second time around. He stood north at the extremity of the Imperial stables gazing back at them before resuming his sprint. Baffled and desperate to catch up, guards rushed farther ahead only to catch a glimpse of him climbing down a drainage pipe and escaping through Stallburgg Alley, until he completely disappeared, veiled by pitch-black darkness of the night.
                  The breathless Austrian Police Inspector’s radio buzzed after a brief static: “Did you get him?!” Exclaimed a tense voice in German.
                  “Negative.” He replied
                  “They’re not going to be happy about this.”
    ***
                  No direct flights operate between my hometown’s Louis Armstrong and Saint Exupéry airports. This unavoidable fact had left me with almost none other better option than a fourteen-hour 2 stops journey to reach Lyon from New Orleans. It seems to me like no matter how long would I stretch my age in numbers, I shall never be at ease when taking off the ground… Certainly my local airport was not one that made things any easier. Aside from its distasteful architectural features, and the incomprehensible lack of proper recreational outlets, a relatively recent accident played its part in adding to my psychological woes. In 1989, a Pan Am’s Boeing jetliner’s pilot struggled to gain altitude on one of the airport’s three runways, which sent the plane crashing into a nearby residential neighbourhood killing all those on board plus a few others who were on the ground… Hardly if at all poetic.
                  As my plane made its pre-assigned voyage ascending well beyond the thick entangled fibres of cotton candy clouds, I began to experience an elevated sense of relief. Mainly because statistically most flight accidents occur during take-offs and landings. Yet here above 35,000 feet, everything is motionless, monotonous and serene, well over pitiful human grievances. The stillness of the familiar scene had always forced an absurd idea into my head: Is this how God perceives us? Are our sufferings so miniscule that they go by unnoticed? I was still slightly shaken by what had happened that past week yet I decided not to dwell on that notion much longer. Instead I pulled some noise-cancelling headphones out of my bag, pressed the shuffle button on my music player and attuned my ears to the familiar voice of Carla Bruni as my eyelids slid to a comfortable complete shut, unable to no longer withstand their very own weight.
                  It took me thousands of miles and many necessary jet lags to bring my globetrotting experience to an end; by the time I reached