In 1921, he flew from the Great Rift Valley. No one believed him, of course. They knew a man could not simply spread his wings and fly. Because a man had no wings, and that was really the point of it. But he insisted he had done it. “Just because no one saw me,” he said, stretching his arms up to the sky, “Does not mean it didn’t happen.”

No one was convinced.

“I flew,” he continued, “From one side of the rift to the other. Over the canyon. I soared above the ground and floated in the sky.” He smiled at, they supposed, the dream. But he was really smiling at the memory.

One brave crowd member spoke up; “Show us, then,” she said. “Fly once more and show us.”

The man who had flown was startled. But pleased. He wouldn’t have suggested it himself, but since it had now been asked of him…

The crowd followed the man to the Great Rift Valley. They stood in a neat half circle by the edge and waited expectantly for him to do something. They waited for him to fail.

They man knew this.

He walked back a few feet and then took a run up. He jumped at the last moment, when a mis-step would have sent him over the edge and down, and he was flying. He was soaring and gliding. The crowed gasped, then cheered, still disbelieving but unable to reason why.

The man flew higher and higher, towards the sun, and then he was gone.