With keen, black eyes Edgar looked over the edge. It was a long way into the rocks and sea water below. A strong wind roared up the hill, sweeping through the grass, until it hit Edgar from behind. Had he not braced himself, then he would of surely toppled over the edge. Once the battle against the blustering winds was over, Edgar sat down with his legs over the edge. The cliff sides were dangerous and prone to breaking apart. But he didn't care. He had enough lives to waste on a cliff side.
Edgar tried to force memories from his previous lives. Most notably, he was looking for glimpses of a painting. A painting carefully forged with expensive paint, dexterous brush strokes, and a white canvas. A painting which had then become a blueprint. That life, and its belongings, and most of its memories had all been lost in a fire. From the few glimpses he could manage, Edgar had made it. The blueprint was accurate, he was sure of that, but he did doubt the accuracy of his memory of the blueprint. What if he miscalculated it?
No time to doubt. He had no need of doubt. If it went wrong then he would start over, at the beginning. And begin again. There were no mistakes for Edgar. He stood, quite carefully despite his lack of fear. Then began undoing the long runs of zips down his legs, body, and underarms. Thin sheets of silk came pouring out on both sides. Had the wind came roaring through again then he would of surely been swept away in a flurry. But the winds had calmed.
"Here goes."
He jumped off the edge. The air rushed past him, drowning out the sound of colossal waves and singing seagulls. He was alive! Edgar spread his arms and legs out wide. The silk extended and suddenly the air hit him like an invisible block of granite. The delicate fabric caught the passing air and his descent slowed. Edgar was amazed at his creation. His wingsuit. Riding the air, he bent one arm down and his entire body began curving. Until he was facing the cliff side. A consdirable ways above was the precipice from which he had leaped, unflinching and defiant in the face of mother nature, to one of the greatest adventures of his most recent life. Then he crashed into the rock wall.
...
Allan awoke. Wiping tired and groggy eyes, he was opened them to find he was still in his apartment. What a strange dream he had. In the dream his name was Edgar and he was the undying man. The flying man. The immortal of many lives from his comics. But those comics had come from somewhere. Every drawing, every sketch, everything had been poured out of his imagination. Being an amateur comic book artist did not pay well but he created a most fantastical world! A world where he took many names and faces. And lead many lives. And had many impossible adventures. But every adventure had come from within. Hitting him, not like a wave of inspiration but like a recovered memory. Maybe... Was he Edgar?
