Two women lived simple lives in 1917. They were quiet less someone know what they were. What would they call them? Witches... sorceresses? Succubi? They were none of these things, not really, but they couldn't quite explain just what they were, so they said nothing and kept their heads down and did the laundry for their neighbors and never married. They were roughly 22 years old. One of them was named Shiela.
When the stockmarket crashed, they survived. People grew suspicous of how well they managed to keep themselves. Of the time they spent secluded, how they did not age. They were still 22 years old.
Time passed and they saw strange new worlds which in fact were really, still, only history. They saw shopping malls and escalators and flying machines. They went further and saw these clear crystal transports and people dressed in little to no clothing. They were not scared or shocked. They did not know what to think. They were curious. They counted the number of stores in the mall, they marveled at seemingly floating through the air. It was an adventure, and they forgot to keep their heads down, not that their faded and thin, 20th century, flower-print shifts didn't give them away.
I was on my volcano and I watched these two girls. I felt a tinge of guilt. Was I easedropping? How did I see this? In one swift movement I launched myself from my perch on top of the world, surging through the air by will alone. I tried at one point to hold my arms out in front of me but found it was uncomfortable and an impractical use of energy (to hold arms up despite the wind and pressure demanding you do otherwise), so they stayed locked by my side at other times, except in landing. I flew from peak to peak, swept down to brush the valley floor, and eventually came back to rest on my volcano - old and dry and forgotten.
Like all my dreams of flight. I feel like I can almost remember how I did it and it saddens me that I can't.