Below is an excerpt from an upcoming short story, "The Flying Kite." The inspiration came to me as a novel. I envisioned a man out to set a record for an Out of Eden style walk. Failing in his progress but determined to the point of obsession, he loses his family, then his sanity, then disappears. I have never written a novel before, so I mulled the idea over for a while until I came up with a way to present it as a short story. A young man walks into a bar, introduces himself as a photojournalist, then tells a tall tale about finding the star-crossed traveler out in the wilderness, still dead set on completing his goal, decades after its completion would have meant anything to the rest of the world.

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Cometa del Vuelo. All eyes went to the old man. He continued to rub his chin, remembering the story. When he noticed that everyone was staring at him, he tried to collect himself to deliver it well. He smoothed his short white hair, cleared his throat, and took a sip of Tequila. El Cometa del Vuelo era un hombre, un Americano...

Matias translated as the man spoke. The Flying Kite was a man, an American. In the year... The man thought for a moment... 1970 or 1971, he tried to set record for walking the spine of the Andes, from Colombia to Patagonia. He and his wife, they held a big stage for the press in Bogotá, where they boasted of their resolve. But they experienced difficulty. They walked too slowly to make their name shine. Many months went by and in Bolivia, his wife, she died. Faulkner vowed to continue in her memory, but the journey was too difficult. A press man met him in Salta in the year 1973, before the revolution. He spoke nonsense. He thought only a few months had passed. He thought he was making progress. He even spoke as if his wife was still alive. He was firm with commitment to his journey. The press man called him The Flying Kite.

Then the revolution came, and people forgot about him. He went crazy in the mountains. People assumed he'd died or settled down somewhere or returned to his homeland. But every now and then he'd make the news. Somebody would find him out in the wilderness or some small shantytown in the Andes or a fishing village on the coast of Chile. For years and years people would report sightings, until the reports became incredible. People eventually stopped believing. Last I heard of him was 1983. Some homeless man in Valparaíso claiming to be Faulkner. Now, The Flying Kite is more of a National urban legend. Every now and then, some hoaxer will claim to have seen him. Some hoaxer will show up at a radio or television station claiming to be Faulkner, looking for attention, money sometimes. Nobody believes.

Kent smiled the whole time, watching the old man, listening to Matias translate from behind him. It's not a hoax. Or a legend. He swallowed off his beer. He's still out there. I met him. I walked with him.

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If you would like to be notified upon its release, please leave a comment below. If you are available for editing or beta reading, please leave a comment or send me a message. Spanish-speakers would be particularly helpful.

Thanks, everyone!