The Kite Moon

By Matt Artz

A teenage boy discovers a way to use his love of kites to escape from his troubled family situation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jan 31, 2018
• ISBN: 9781387558858

Matt Artz

Matt Artz is a principal content strategist for Esri Press. 

Book preview

The Kite Moon

Dedication

For Lily.

Prelude

Early in the morning of May 1st, 2014, I had a dream.

It was about a kite.

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We all have dreams.

And then we wake up.

Matt Artz

Highland, California

January 2018

Mourning Light

Flies buzzed around the mouth of a near-empty wine bottle sitting next to two or three others that were also empty, lying on their sides.

Mom was slouched back in her chair, passed out drunk, again; her mouth agape, her body prostrate. I was down on the ragged, soiled carpet at her feet, crayon in hand, executing crudely imagined drawings of my dreams, of escapes far, far away from my tiny island of despair.

On the television, an old science fiction movie, black and white, about men in a rocket, exploring deep space and fighting off evil aliens. When mom lost consciousness, I always grabbed the remote and changed the channel, away from inane game shows and soap operas, and turned it to something a little more interesting.

A lone Mourning Dove sang its foreboding melody just outside the open, unscreened window. Light streamed in through the window in a futile attempt to brighten the surroundings.

And dad was nowhere to be seen.

I was probably about three, maybe three and a half years old.

This is my earliest memory of childhood.

A New Toy

Dad showed up one blustery fall day. It wasn’t the first time I saw my dad, but this time it was different. I was about six years old. And three profound things happened that day.

In our little suburban purgatory, there were a lot of single parents. Several of my friends had parents who were divorced and dads they rarely saw or had never even met. I was firmly entrenched in the former camp, with a father who would show up occasionally, with a gruff greeting and an uncomfortable disposition, and leave again quickly. But that day, he stayed the night.

And that’s the first big thing that happened: I realized that my parents were not divorced after all; rather, my dad had a job that kept him away from home for long periods of time.

The second thing that happened that day was that dad brought me a present.

A kite.

It’s was a cheap kite consisting of three dowels and a black plastic cover, in the shape of a bat. And it came with a small roll of thin string.

That afternoon, after a long and heated discussion with my mom that featured both of them consuming much alcohol, my dad stumbled outside to show me how to fly my new kite. There was a nice breeze, and we set about getting the flying machine airborne in the large weed-covered gap between our house and the neighbors, where one massive, ancient oak tree had watched over the neighborhood majestically until a wicked storm had blown in to town the previous winter and smacked it violently earthward, barely missing our house.

Dad held the kite in his cigarette-free hand and walked backwards with the wind while I let out string. When he was about 15 feet away from me, he stopped.

On the count of three, you run like hell until the kite is up there, he said, pointing to the blue sky. Got it?

Yep.

OK then. One. Two. Three! Run!

With that, he chucked the kite vertically and I started running away from him. The kite ascended skyward very quickly, and soon he yelled Stop! And then I just stood there, the string taught, the black plastic bat dancing far above my head, twisting and turning in the autumn breeze.

What happens if the string breaks? I asked the old man.

You’re probably fucked, he replied.

You mean it will just fly away?

No, listen kid, that thing isn’t really flying, by itself, it’s just being held up there by the wind. Jesus. If the string breaks, you’ll probably lose the damn thing in a tree.

Oh.

Dad puffed heavily on his cigarette as my eyes and every sense of being remained fixated on the flying plastic. After a few minutes of this joyous new escape from my earthly bounds, the wind shifted about 30 degrees and suddenly my kite was dancing playfully close to the face of the pale moon.

It was so close. 

Almost touching. 

It fascinated me.

I let out some more string, hoping to eventually reach the moon with my kite, but no such luck. Soon there was no string left, just an empty cardboard tube, with the tail end of the bat’s leash tied firmly around the center.

Dad, I asked, how much more string would we need to reach the moon?

What? he replied, flabbergasted at my question. No, no, no, listen you dumb little shit, you can’t fly a fucking kite to the moon! It’s, like, millions of miles away! And there’s no fucking atmosphere! You need atmosphere to have wind, otherwise you can’t fly your fucking kite, it won’t stay fucking airborne! Jesus H. Christ, you sound just like your fucking mother. I’m surrounded by idiots. I’ve got to get the fuck out of here. See you around, kid. Shit.

And then he walked back towards the house, slamming the front door behind him.

Oh, OK, I said.

But in my heart, I knew he was wrong. His profanity-laden diatribe had done nothing to wipe the smile from my face, nor could it drain the ocean of grand ideas racing through my tiny head.

And that’s the third thing that happened: it was the day that I realized I was a better person than my dad.

Shortly after that revelation, I died for the first time.

Everywhere the Light

White.

White.

White.

The floor was white.

The walls were white.

The ceiling was white.

Everything was white. And not just regular white, but bright white. Blinding bright white. Really, really white.

As I tried to understand where I was, I became disoriented. There were no seams; no corners, no edges. The white floor blended into the white walls, which blended in to the white ceiling.

Was I standing? Was I floating? Was I flying?

I started to move. Yes, I was walking, forward, feeling the effects of gravity. But it was not easy to keep my balance, having no frame of reference, no horizon by which to judge.

I started to walk a little faster. Moving faster helped with the balance. I was no longer in fear of toppling over, and was moving forward at a steady pace.

But what exactly did forward mean in this place?

Where was I going?

I started to hyperventilate. The overload of oxygen to my brain caused a quick dizziness and only heightened my disorientation.

I became aware of my own body, walking forward, below me; I began to drift, to float, up, up, higher, until I was looking down at my own body, walking forward, with what looked like purpose, but towards an invisible destination.

A vast white plane, a body, my body, walking, then running, then stopping, exhausted, then pushing forward yet again. No matter how far, no matter how long, no matter what direction, nothing seemed to change. It just went on forever, white, flat, featureless, nothing. White, brilliant, shimmering, stretching out forever and ever. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

I tried to scream but my throat was as dry as the virtual white shimmering desert surrounding me, and no sound came out. My silent cries and mighty echoes of nothingness drifted off into the ether, no sound to be heard; much ado about nothing. Yet still I kept moving.

Towards the light, everywhere the light.

And then I woke up.

Damaged People

Mom’s alcohol of choice was always wine—typically really cheap red wine. Dad, on the other hand, preferred copious amounts of really cheap beer—except when he was extra mad at my mom, when he would tap in to her red wine stockpile, just to make her even angrier.

It was pretty common for dad to hit me whenever he happened to be around. But the only time mom was ever physical was when she thought I was trying to steal her wine. And that happened quite often when she was holding a glass, in the process of passing out, and I simply grabbed it to keep it from spilling; she would suddenly come out of her stupor, if only briefly, just long enough to scream at me and hit me, before quickly descending back in to that deep alcohol coma, the red wine pouring again onto our already deeply stained carpet.

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Was my mother an alcoholic to escape the boredom and loneliness of my father almost always being on the road?

Or was my dad’s choice of vocation purposeful, an excuse