Wings to Fly

Written 5/21/26

My final short story for my fiction writing class that follows Warren Kipner's life over several vignettes.

They wanted to sing. That's how it all began, what brought them together, what brought them to from Gloucester to London. They wanted to dance on the stage, front-and-center, Rob with an acoustic guitar and Warren with one hand on the microphone, the other holding a tambourine or reaching towards the crowd. They wanted to hear the fans clinging to the words they had written in their bedrooms, to feel the rhythm and the heat, to taste the salt of their own invigorated sweat. They wanted to be on the radio, on the cover of an LP, in a magazine, immortalized.

But that was already years ago when Rob was driving Warren home from a local concert, rain battering on the windshield, streaks of light passing over the leather seats and Rob's frustrated face like waves on a dark, restless ocean.

Rob wanted more. He wanted revolution, riots, long hair, beads, mottos. He wanted to write music, or at least picket signs, that went against the grain, that made a "real difference" in the world. He wanted to dismantle complacency, consumerism, and capitalism in that order. He also probably wanted LSD, but Warren couldn't know for sure. Rob didn't give secrets anymore, only sermons. He was hardly recognizable now like some stranger had possessed his childhood friend.

"...Gotta keep it safe. Gotta make the pounds. Gotta keep the youth happy and sedated," he was saying, and Warren scoffed from the passenger seat.

"What's so wrong with finding happiness in the pain? Isn't that what music is for?"

"There's a difference between that and distracting yourself. It's 1969, Warren. Us young people have a responsibility to take action, not just sing about love and act like everything is fine."

Warren clenched his hands around the leather interior, searching for a smart retort, the perfect argument for music for music's sake. But he didn't get the chance to find one.

Some time later, he woke up to a nearly blinding world of white for the third or fourth time. The lines were clearer by then, though. White walls, white floors, white sheets, white hospital equipment, white medical coats. He squinted his eyes, rolled his head back and, sure enough, white ceiling too.

A spindly nurse pulled a needle from his arm and spoke in an English accent. "Dr. Miller will bring you to the x-ray room shortly. How does your back feel now?" "Not great..." he croaked. It was worse than that. His head, his arms, and his chest also screamed in the invisible fire consuming his body. But there were more pressing matters. "Where's Rob?"

Her stone-calm demeanor faltered. "Rob?"

"My friend. He was driving when it happened."

She hesitated again, "I don't have that information. I'm sorry. Can I help you with anything else?"

Warren declined and was left alone once more. It wasn't long until the heaviness of his eyelids began to triumph over the pain. He only wanted to sleep. He wanted to forget. Before the world turned black, however, he noticed his feet for the first time poking out from the blanket, pale and bare against the AC's breeze and yet... they didn't feel cold.

Then, just as he would every time he drifted to sleep from then on, he glimpsed the last thing he remembered before the hospital: a bright light speeding towards him, the darkness spinning, a deafening crunch. Smoke, broken glass, pain.

Then nothing.

"London? Really?"

Warren's mother stood up from the mail on the wobbly kitchen table, her subtly-inked eyes stretching wide in disbelief as her perfectly-curled hair fell over her shoulders. Her tone was more severe than he had expected. His gaze fell to his scuffed shoes.

"Well, Rob said that we'd have a lot more luck with this whole music thing if we..."

"Oh, honey," She began, slowly walking across the cracked tile to adjust his shirt collar, "You've really let Rob get to your head, haven't you? I love that you're following your dreams. And I love that you want to be successful. But more than that, I love having you here. You're the only family that I have anymore."

He thought about their lonely two-bedroom house, the quaint solitude of Gloucester, his childhood without a father. Warren was sure that she held onto him all the more tightly from having already lost someone. But he was nineteen now and, according to Rob, old enough to make his own decisions.

"I know, Mum. It's just... Oh, y'know," He let out a sigh, dropping his hands to his sides, "This town is so small. Maybe I could convince Rob to move to Sydney instead. That's only a few hours away, isn't it?"

"Five hours!" She groaned.

"Then maybe Newcastle?"

"You must be joking. That place is so dirty..."

Growing desperate, he took her hand. "You could always come with us, then. I'm sure there's plenty of jobs open in Sydney or even London..."

But as she slowly shook her head, he trailed off, spark fizzling out.

"Those places aren't as great as you think. Your friend is in over his head. Now don't look so sad." Reaching up with her other hand, she gently parted his bangs, blue eyes meeting brown. "I'll find you some more work in town, okay? I won't let you be bored. I love you, baby."

"I love you, too, Mum," Warren replied, unable to smile back as she automatically returned to her work. He trudged aimlessly from the kitchen to the cramped dining room, his hands in his pockets, imagining his dream growing wings and flying far, far away...

III

"So... what did she say?"

Rob leaned over the cafe patio table with a toothy grin. His hair was longer and darker than Warren's, his perfectly-pressed red button-up newer and more brightly colored.

"Um..." Warren's gaze wandered to the busy downtown street, the cars gleaming in the summer sun, the brick Majestic Theatre, his half-eaten vegemite toast. "She said she'd think about it."

"Ohh, baby, baby," Rob whined in a girly voice, fluttering his lashes, "Be careful with the sunlight or the UV might hurt your perrrrrrfect smooth skin!"

Warren huffed, swatting at him. "Oi, quit it. She's not on my back that much."

"Really?" His friend sipped his coffee, raising an incredulous eyebrow. "My mum wouldn't stand between me and the trip of a lifetime. She hardly looks at me, sure, but I'd rather that than whatever yours has going on– all Lisa Kipner this, Lisa Kipner that."

Warren avoided the other's gaze, pinching his index nail and thumb. Although it wasn't the first time they had joked about this, he was beginning to feel uncomfortable the more he went on.

"Listen, mate," He finally cut in, pointing the toast at Rob, "Just give me a few days. I'll convince her, I promise."

Early one morning, Lisa snuck into her son's room, bending over to pluck a few dirty socks and shirts off the floor. In the sunlight turned pastel blue by the curtains, he slept sprawled out the same messy way he did since he was a boy begging for fairy bread- body sprawled over the white sheets, clothes still on, and a thin line of drool touching his pillow. He stayed late last night at some concert with that firebrand friend of his- what was his name? Robert? As always, though, her annoyance was washed away by a warm rush of pride upon seeing him. So young, so precious, so reflective of her smart parenting.

She stopped by a shelf of dusty swimming trophies, adjusting one whose golden plaque read "BULAHDELAH ANNUAL, 1964", her wistful smile reflected on its shiny surface. Then the smile fell to a frown as she looked at the records on the dresser- the Beatles' Revolver, the Hollies' For Certain Because- all that harsh English nonsense that Rob got him into. But then her eyes spotted something on the desk. A scattering of lined paper with her son's neat handwriting. She tiptoed near, picking a page off the top and skimming through it. Words unfolded into images, images unfolded into rhymes, and the rhymes formed a steady rhythm- a song.

"Mmm... Hello?" Jumping at her son's groggy voice, she put the paper back down.

"Sorry, baby. Just getting some laundry out!" She chirped as she swung her hamper back into the hallway. In the rush, she had already forgotten the words to his poem or whatever it was. But an image replayed in her head of a boy much like him sitting in an endless golden field, longingly watching the flocks of retreating budgerigars...

In just a few years' time, she was rushing through a hospital in another country, her heart racing. Meanwhile, the vague details that the doctors had given her bounced around her mind. Car crash, critical condition, irreversible damage to the spine, and Rob...

Aren't you going to visit him and make sure he's okay? An older mother from her relaxation class had asked Lisa after she had shakily read the letter aloud in a cafe. She hadn't even told Sarah that the letter had arrived a week prior. The words stung all the more.

Of course she loved her son. She loved him so much that the thought of him disfigured was almost too much to bear. As soon as her plane landed in London, her feet taking the same steps through the airport that those two boys took, her urgency was reignited. He was here. She could feel it.

One cab ride and an endless row of agonizing conversations with doctors later, she was finally led towards a room in the very corner of the fourth floor that was reserved for patients close to full recovery. When she burst through the door, however, her son looked anything but. He was lying frail upon his back, a bandage running from his shoulder to his chest and soft afternoon light spilling onto the white sheets covering most of his body. The room was sparse of decoration or equipment- only a wooden seat in the corner, a mirror opposite to the window, and, to her horror, a blue metal wheelchair at the foot of the bed.

Her son's hair, though still short, was now tangled and greasy. At first, his head was tilted towards the window and his eyes were closed. Upon hearing her entrance, however, he quickly looked up, his dreary eyes widening.

"Mum? Is that you?"

Lisa was frozen by his gaze. Had they been apart that long? Or was there an accusation in his words, his eyes? She flinched as an elderly nurse came up behind her, breaking the momentary spell. Turning around, Lisa said with a tremble to her voice, "Could I have some privacy with him for a few minutes, please?"

The nurse nodded, the door closed, and it was just Lisa and her son all alone in that white room with the blue wheelchair. She approached his bed slowly, trying to delay the inevitable as she spoke.

"Oh, baby. You wouldn't believe my flight here, all the changes in weather. And seeing you like this..." She paused, looking down at her hand as it delicately floated along the mattress, "These British doctors... Have they treated you well?"

"Yes, Mum. I'm fine, it's okay." His words came out soft and hoarse. She met his gaze again instinctively only to feel a pang of guilt so sharp that she had to look away. Finally, she blurted it out.

"What they said about you- your legs. I-It's not true, is it? Stand up." She reached out a hand and from the corner of her eye saw him shake his head.

"I can't," He croaked, "...Not yet. Th-the doctors said I might still-"

But Lisa couldn't bring herself to hear the rest. Ripping herself away from the bed, she covered her face. Tears began to stream down her powdered cheeks.

"Oh my God..." She whimpered, "This is all my fault. I'm a terrible mother."

The thin mattress squeaked as her son moved. "Mum, what are you talking about? You weren't even here."

"But I could've been!" She broke into a loud sob, the tears running faster, "I could've done something! If I hadn't let you go to England in the first place, you wouldn't be- you would still-"

Suddenly, the door swung open and a nurse that was Lisa's age stopped in her tracks. A look of shock spread across her face before she looked towards her son and back again at Lisa. "Excuse me, m'am? Do we need to take you outside for a while? We have a vacant room down the hall..."

Her tone was simple and professional, but somewhere in her concerned gaze, Lisa swore she saw a flash of judgement. The mirror glinted and she saw herself briefly, eyeliner in black streaks down her red face. As much as he tried to deny it, her son knew. The nurse knew. The entire hospital knew that it was her fault that her son was a cripple. She longed to be back home in their small Australian town, gone from the watching eyes of this big, foreign city. But her son wouldn't be there to share it with her. There was only one thing worse than not having him at all.

Pulling her long peacoat close, she rushed to the door. The nurse let out a shocked gasp as she was knocked aside.

"Mum, wait! Come back!" She tried to ignore her son yelling after her as she ran for the stairwell, the white walls and white coats all blurring together in her vision. His voice grew fainter and fainter. But it would be far from the last time that she'd hear it.

"And now, surprising us all with Everybody Shake at number one, please give a warm welcome to Applejack!"

Dottie, Joan, and Lauren sat on the orange carpet around the television, the strong smell of nail polish flooding the room. The girls, brought together by the magnetic force of their teenage years, were talking animatedly over the pictures of cute singers cut out from their magazines, trading them around and talking about who they'd marry versus who they'd rather just kiss.

Suddenly, though, Dottie found her attention drawn to the program, stopping the coral brush above her pinkie nail. The song itself was energetic and catchy, bringing to mind the rock n' roll dance tunes of their childhood. But more than that, she found herself hypnotized by the tall-faced, round-eyed boy at the microphone, shaking his wavy brown hair and a tambourine as he sang in a high, nasally voice.

Everybody shake, shake it up tonight,

Gonna get down, gonna feel alright!

"Hey girls, look at this!" Dottie called. The other two were lying on their stomachs over a giant poster of Robin Gibb and quickly sat up, following her gaze. By then, the camera had zoomed out. She counted five in all- a dark-skinned, jumping lead guitarist, a baby-faced rhythm guitarist, a cool and blond bassist, a stocky, mischievous-eyed drummer, and that singer. In a plain yellow button-up and brown corduroys, he sat on the edge of one of the stage's colorful terraces, the microphone bent awkwardly low so it could reach him. But why...?

"Groovy!" Lauren exclaimed, leaping to her feet, "Come on, Joanie! Let's dance!"

"Agh, watch it! My nails are still drying!"

The other two girls faded into the background as Dottie stared transfixed at the screen. Even the music blurred into a quiet hum, a barrage of questions taking its spotlight. Before she knew it, the song ended with a drum roll and crash, the guitarists ringing out a strong final chord.

The drummer stood up as the camera panned out, joining the guitarists and bassist as they straightened their backs and bowed to the studio audience.

The singer, on the other hand? He simply nodded from where he sat, raising the tambourine above his head with an exhausted smile.

VII

"Wings to Fly, take eleven."

Warren's elbow was on the armrest, his chin resting on his hand, as he listened back to the recording, the others standing anxiously behind him. Donny's gentle fingerpicking started the song, then came Warren singing the verse, Gabe's uncharacteristically soft and restrained drumming, Andy's bass entering high and descending into the chorus, and finally Barnie's electric guitar between the vocals. They even hired a string quintet to enter on the second verse, allowing the song to build and build. By all means, it was a good tune. But something wasn't right still. It wasn't how he envisioned it.

"The bridge is a bit weak, I think," Warren began as the tape was still spinning through the last chorus, "Let's rerecord the drums and lead guitar- maybe splice in some new vocals there, too."

"Geez, again?" Gabe groaned, walking away. Barnie placed a hand on Warren's shoulder.

"Warren, why don't we just keep that take for now and have a break? I'm dying for some coffee."

Leaning back in the wheelchair, Warren let out a long sigh. "Okay, for now."

"Great. And don't overwork yourself."

As the others filed out of the large recording room, Warren trailed behind them, wheeling past the framed posters of other musicians lining the hallway. Somewhere was an early photo of Applejack themselves, three seated on a couch and two standing close behind, all smiles, no hint that their singer was any different from the rest of them beyond his Australian accent. It was 1973, two years since the television debut that skyrocketed them into national fame.

Barnie was the first one that he had met while seeing a small local band before Rob had drifted away- before the incident that took him for good. They had quite literally bumped into each other, Warren spilling his drink, Barnie offering to buy him a new one, and the two chatting by the bar for a while before Rob pulled him back into the crowd. There was something about Barnie, though... a sort of restrained energeticness and mutual respect that contrasted with Rob's rambunctious, brotherly teasing. The more Rob began to inch away, the closer Warren moved towards Barnie. When he finally got out of the hospital only to fall down a deeper hole of misery, Barnie was the one who pulled him out, telling him about the band he was putting together. After some convincing, that band became Warren & Friends, soon to be renamed Applejack.

After their debut LP had meager success, though, their label asked them- or rather ordered them- to write a rock n' roll dance tune. Warren, Barnie, and Don wrote "Everybody Shake" in some thirty minutes- ten if not for the many laughing fits along the way. They were just having fun in those days. Little did they know, their first single was about to become a national hit overnight.

After their first appearance on the screen, the weeks had flown by in a rush of excitement. Finally, his dream had come true! People loved him! He was famous! On a different television program, however, a female interviewer asked him the inevitable question...

"Now, Warren, sorry if this sounds forward, but Britain has been dying to know! Can you move your legs?"

And seeing no harm at the time, he simply grinned and said "No, I can't feel them," just before their ten minutes were up. From then on, the public was hooked. Journalists swarmed him with questions: what was his routine? How did the other members feel about it? Could he really not feel anything down there? Sometimes Barnie would put a gentle foot down for him, much to his relief.

"That's a great question, but would you mind us discussing our next LP for a bit?"

Now, with only a few weeks between the chaos of touring, the group was putting the finishing touches on their third album. The single they had put out to keep their fans at bay was already climbing the charts. Even radio stations in other countries were starting to pick up on Applejack and their concerts were bringing young people in the thousands. What more could they ask for?

While Warren wheeled up to the coffee table, the others were talking excitedly as they perused a pile of magazines, Don also fiddling with his guitar, Gabe scoffing a sandwich wrapped in aluminium foil, and Andy quiet and cool, happy to be there. Barnie got up and handed Warren the newest pop issue, pointing at the large black-and-white photo on page seven.

"Check it out, man! You hit the big time again!"

Seeing the photo of himself from last week's show, cropped above the waist, maracas in hand, Warren's first instinct was to smile. It was a great shot of him, even if the paisley button-up he wore that night was a bit flashier than his usual attire. But then his eyes scanned up to the article's title.

DISABLED SINGER, WARREN KIPNER, DEFIES ODDS WITH INTERNATIONAL TOUR

From London to Liverpool, Applejack has always...

and Warren didn't read the rest. He could only stare at those two words. DISABLED he was, first and foremost. Only afterward was he considered a SINGER.

"Hey, Warren, you okay over there?"

Looking up to Barnie's voice, he noticed that the rest of the group was staring at him, faces ranging between confusion and concern. "Uh- yeah, yeah... Just, y'know." He showed the magazine, forcing a laugh, "Thought my teeth looked a little funny in this picture or something."

Don returned a crooked smile above his guitar. "I've been there!"

VIII

Someone who needed her. That was all Dottie wanted. Someone who saw her, understood her, affirmed her, and wouldn't- couldn't leave her. Joan and Lauren soon drifted away, calling her too obsessed. But they were the weird ones. They didn't cry when she showed them the photos of him in the magazine with his innocent face and little pad that looked more like a jail cell with all those metal bars sticking out everywhere. "Something so horrible happening to someone so young and pretty... can you believe it?" Yet they simply shrugged. "Their music's a bit corporate-sounding," Joan began, and Dottie stopped listening.

Weeks later, she snuck out in the night, twenty pounds in her little purse, a short green dress strung over her shoulder for tomorrow. After paying for the cab and the cheap hotel, fifth row was the best she could get. Finally seeing him in the flesh, though, she felt like the only one there, that the songs were written for her, that she could practically reach out and touch him.

Shortly after the curtains fell, she was sneaking through a skinny hallway backstage. Warren's unmistakable voice broke above the hum of muffled voices.

"Very funny, guys. I want to crash like the rest of you so get back down here!"

A backdoor. Stairs. Evidence before her very eyes. They were two of a kind, left behind and forgotten by their so-called friends. She felt all the more convinced that they were destined to meet.

"Excuse me," she said in a tiny voice as she reached out her hand, "I can help you up." Without the distance separating them, he was bigger than she had expected and might've towered over her if he could stand. But when he looked at her with those sweet shining eyes, mouth slightly ajar, she could see the future ahead of them. The lunch outings, the inside jokes, his eyes meeting hers in the crowd, her wheeling him through the park. "I wish all of our fans were like you," he'd say, "Seeing me for who I am." And she'd smile and nod, imagining him in her hotel room later that night.

The back door swung open. "Hey, sorry man, we were in such a rush that we-" Barnie stopped, narrowing his cold black eyes towards Dottie. Her face turned red as her hands dropped to her sides.

"Oh, don't worry at all, Barn." Warren's eyes jumped quickly between guitarist and fan, a nervous laugh escaping his lips. "I'm sure you know Barnie Sutton. He usually does these things for me, y'know. But thanks for the offer."

"O-Of course. My name's Dottie."

"Well, it's great to-" Warren's words were cut off as Barnie lifted him easily from the wheelchair, shouting with his usual dramatic flair "And UP we go!" He pretended to almost drop the singer who jokingly slapped and chided his bandmate, leaving Dottie to glower behind them. She reached a hand into her purse, feeling her fingers clench around the meager change he had left.

Blackpool, the 19th. Two days. She'd earn enough for the front row by then.

APPLEJACK IS BACK: "EVERYBODY SHAKE" BAND TAKING A NEW DIRECTION

March 1976 marks three years since Applejack released their third album and two and a half years since the group abruptly went radio silent after their last national tour. Guitarist Barnie Sutton would eventually put out a statement reassuring the public that the band was simply taking time away from each other. "Music is a delicate thing, like a marriage," He told one of our sleuth-writers, "Our next album is in the works." But the appearance of drummer Gabriel McDowell on PopGoes with the Case Barnaby Band had many dedicated fans worried that this was the end. The hope that Warren Kipner had given audiences was beginning to fizzle out.

But at the start of this year, Applejack released not only a single but an entire album of tracks showcasing their new, more sophisticated sound. The music jumps between funk rock dance tunes and experiments in disco to harder rock n' roll. Just one look at the cover and you'll know that the band isn't behind on the changing times. They're ahead. And just this week, they've finally announced their next tour. Our magazine has received special permission to list the dates below...

Gabe closed the magazine as he paced the carpet, the pages crumbling in his thick hands. The band was crowded in a small hotel room in Birmingham, the air still buzzing after the third performance of the tour. Some of the show had been broadcast live on national TV. The whole world had been anxious to see the new Warren Kipner and so had the band themselves when he'd suddenly brought them together for a reformation four months ago. But what they saw was far from what they had expected.

Barnie stepped away from the studio lobby door with an apologetic smile, and in he came. He had dark, serious eyes and sunken cheeks surrounded by the frizziest perm they had ever seen. His white shirt was buttoned low to his hairy chest, the sleeves tight around his muscled arms. If not for the wheelchair, the band wouldn't have even recognized their lead singer.

As work on their album began, they realized that he had changed on the inside, too. "Okay, here's the plan. We need to show them we're mature now, so none of that poppy stuff," He'd say with a glare towards Donny. Then "Andy, can't you play any faster? This isn't a ballad," and "Gabe, why would the song have a cowbell? Put it back."

For the most part, they were too relieved having him back to worry much. Then again, they had changed, too. Barnie had a mustache, afro, and clothes only a little less flashy than Warren. Andy had shorter hair; Don: longer. And Gabriel had gained a beard, a receding hairline, and a slight gut. While the rest of the band was chatting around the bathroom door, Warren laid flat on one of the double beds with his arms crossed above his chest. The mattress suddenly tilted as Gabriel sat down on the other end, flipping to another page.

"Gor blimey," Gabe muttered to no one in particular, "That Case Barnaby really fell off, didn't 'e?"

Andy walked past the bed, laying a vest atop his suitcase. "Didn't you work with him once?"

"I needed the money," He snorted, tapping the magazine on his knee, a little bored. Leaning over, he noticed Warren on the bed and swatted his numb leg with the paper, his frustrated words slurring together.

"Oi, what's with ye? We just had a good show out there and you've been sulking all night. Can ye talk like ye know us?"

The singer put his elbows down, raising his head from the pillow. "Can you talk without hitting me?"

"Ah, tush. Ye can't even feel it. Why does everything bother ye these days, anyway? Ye weren't this serious before ye up and left us for a whole year without a word. What happened after that last show, huh?"

Warren's arms quickly straightened so he was level with Gabe, his hollow face tightening in a sudden grimace. "Not a God damn thing happened. Keep out of it."

By then, the hotel room had gone suddenly quiet as the rest of the band noticed the commotion. Barnie and Don, who had been brainstorming a new tune, turned their gazes towards the bed and fidgeted nervously. The tension was thick upon the air. Finally Warren huffed, the thick curls covering his face as he tore his gaze away.

"I just didn't want to be a happy little teenybopper anymore. That's all. I was sick of it."

For a moment, Gabe looked away, too, searching. Then a grin spread across his face and he leaned dangerously close to Warren's side.

"Ah, don't tell me. It's that Dottie chick, innit? That little fan of yours that ye kept trying to tell us was a friend? How come we don't see 'er arou-"

And while he was still in the middle of speaking, Barnie stomped forward. With a strength that seemed unlike him, he aggressively yanked Gabriel's shirt collar.

"Leave him alone!" His yell echoed through the room as the stockier man stumbled heavily across the small stretch of walking space, barely catching himself on the wall. A shocked silence fell over the group. Even Warren had turned with a glare and tensed shoulders, although it was unclear if he'd done so before or after Barnie had intervened.

"God, you're insufferable when you're drunk, you know that?" The guitarist snapped, turning towards Warren, "You're both insufferable."

By then, Warren was staring at the opposite wall again. Gabriel wiped his drooling mouth with a shirt sleeve, glowering at Barnie. Finally, Donny broke the silence as he hesitantly approached the drummer.

"Hey, Gabe, why don't we go to the other room for the night, huh? We've got another show tomorrow."

The drummer sniffed, his gaze still fixed on their guitarist. "Right," was all he said as he moved unsteadily past Donny and towards the door.

An old poster that a fan forgot to retrieve after he signed it now lay upon the cluttered dressing room vanity. Warren knew he'd throw it away later, but as he wheeled closer to his reflection, the photo shimmered in his peripheral vision. Bright, round eyes, boyish wavy hair, an innocent smile- no wonder people pitied him. The man in the mirror was gaunt and serious in contrast, now wearing a red button-up of glittering sequins, a gold chain choker, and white bell-bottoms. In a few minutes, Applejack would be broadcast live across England again with only the most sophisticated camera work, lighting, stage design, and guest musicians.

It was 1977, times were changing, and singing wasn't good enough anymore. Not while he was in this damn wheelchair and it was all they could talk about or even see. He wanted to have his music heard- really heard. He wanted to be judged by their standards. He wanted his hard work to be appreciated for once. He wanted agency. If that meant playing by their rules, their new fashion trends, the flash and dazzle and the new masculine, then so be it.

He was almost like Rob, really, but a decade delayed. And he wasn't attempting to fit in with the hip crowd and disguising it as a statement of the world. He was making a statement of his true self. This was who he was all along. Warren didn't think about Rob much; he tried not to. All that lying in bed at night wondering why he had survived the crash instead of his friend did him no good. In fact, anything that reminded him of Australia down to hearing his own accent put a bad taste in his mouth. But he couldn't keep away the dreams, the dreams of the cockatoos and budgies, the dreams of running in a field...

The door behind him suddenly creaked open, and Warren saw a woman's blurry form in the mirror. Another fan? His chest tightened, heart skipping with fear as he remembered the last time he was alone with one, unable to defend himself at the time, unable to prevent the shameful memory that constantly haunted him from forming. When he whipped his chair around, though, he saw that the woman was much older than their usual demographic despite her thick makeup and suffocating hairspray. His blood went cold. The curls, the pointy nose, and the eyes set close together like his own...

"Mum?"

She made an inward gasp, her bracelets clinking as she put her bejeweled hands to the heart of her blouse. "My son. My baby. You've changed so much..."

Lips quivering, she reached out and made to hug him, but he scowled and tensed his strong arms away in a threatening pose. "How did you get in here? Why are you here?" Last he heard, she was back in Australia, happily forgetting that he existed. To his further surprise, she looked shocked and hurt at his words. It was all for show, he told himself. Everything about her was fake.

"I-I just wanted to see my son again," she stammered, "I want to be a part of your life here, in London."

"Get the hell out," he growled without hesitation, pointing towards the door. Family or not, she had left him when he needed her most. He was tired of making excuses for her. She hesitated before stepping towards him one more time, clutching her hands in a ball.

"Please, everything I've done, I'm sure we could-"

He wheeled himself away from her only for the back of his chair to hit the vanity. She kept approaching and his anger finally boiled over with a shout.

"I said GET OUT!"

Reaching behind himself, he scrambled his hand across the desk for something to throw at her, knocking over spray cans and makeup vials. Finally his fingers found something and he threw it without thinking. It was merely a brush, hitting the wall behind Lisa.

With a quick swoosh of her long denim skirt, she rushed out of the dressing room. His glare remained on the door for a long time after she was gone, his breathing coming and going in furious gasps between his clenched teeth.

He wished he had been fast enough to throw something heavy, something right at the head so it would've killed her. He wished she was on the carpet now, face-down with a pool of blood spilling out through her dyed hair.

Suddenly aware of himself, he cupped his hands to his burning forehead, trying to wash the image from his mind. She's my mother, she's my mother, the voice in the poster was trying to say. But the venomous new voice in the mirror was crescendoing. Warren could feel its vengeful spirit seeping through his veins as much as he tried to fight it, possessing his broken body.

What the hell is happening to me? It was all crashing down. His mother, the journalists, the fans, his band- everyone he thought he could trust only saw him as one thing: a cripple. In need of help. Can't think on his own. Can't be taken seriously. They didn't know what he wanted. They didn't know the real him.

But the more that he thought about it, the less sure he was that he knew, either.

It was the peak of noon on a warm summer day. The foamy waves lapped lazily over the sand. Gulls and terns cried plaintively as they circled above the water. The beach was crowded with people, all loud and huge to the five-year old Warren. Far from the shore, he could have some peace, the cool water rising to his chest. The vague shapes of fish darting around his legs and gentle current beckoned him further. Keep going, there's more.

Crouching down to the surface, Warren pushed out against the sand, struggling at first against the waves but soon catching onto their rhythm. Although the laughter and yelling on the beach was becoming quieter and quieter, he kept his eyes towards the endless blue expanse as he swam. He wanted to see what was out there. He wanted to be one with the water, to have fins to swim, to feel a freedom as strong as the salt on his lips. From a bird's eye view, he was merely a boy out on the ocean, a speck of dirt broken from the mainland, its earth parents probably looking for him. But he never felt more like his own self in that moment, doing what only he chose to do.

Above the catching breeze, however, a woman's scream split the air. It was faraway at first. Warren couldn't tell whose voice it was or what it was saying so he kept swimming. He definitely didn't want to return to the shore now if someone was getting murdered. Yet the volume increased rapidly, the two noises forming a word.

"WARREN! WARREN!"

He stopped swimming and turned around. Splashing frantically a few meters away was his mother in a red bikini. He was already drifting back towards her when she grabbed his arm, yanking him hard through the water. His head fell under as she dragged him towards the shore like a pool toy, salt rushing painfully through his nose. When they were finally back on dry land, he staggered in her grip, coughing up a mouthful of sour liquid.

"What were you doing out there?" she was shouting at him as she crouched down and shook him by the shoulders, "Don't you know you could've drowned yourself? What if there was a shark? What would I have done? Talk to me, damn it!"

He was vaguely aware that a crowd was starting to stare at them. Sunglasses lowered themselves and voices whispered. Finally, his mother noticed, too, and let go. Her anger dissipated from her horrified face. Before he could follow her command by a response, she buried him in a tight hug.

"Please don't scare me like that again, baby," she whimpered between planting hard kisses on his forehead, scratching the back of his messy hair, "I couldn't stand to lose you, too."

Moments later, she was leading him back over the cliff, Warren reaching out the arm that wasn't sore from her pulling it earlier. His mom was back to her usual self, talking animatedly about getting the two of them ice cream as a special treat. But he stayed silent as ever, constantly making regretful glances behind him at the unknowable blue stretch.

A year later, another boy named Rob would approach him in maths, an unlikely friendship forming between the gifted socialite and the quiet kid who performed just above the mark. A few more years and his mother would encourage him to join his secondary school's swim team in which he'd quickly rise to the top. Rob invited him to his bedroom and showed him his first rock n' roll record, changing the course of their lives forever. And after overhearing his mom on the phone, he realized that the father he'd been telling everyone was dead had actually divorced her when she was pregnant.

His father was still out there somewhere, maybe Queensland, maybe Germany, maybe on a boat on the arctic ocean. But whenever Warren got that thought, he imagined his last look that day towards the Australian sea.

His own self was out there, too, somewhere, flying away without him on wings that he never had the chance to grow.