The morning is overcast, gray with attenuated summer light. Patrishia walks across the cracked and ancient tarmac to where the small dirigible lies moored, in a row of others much like it. Hers is silver in color, with blue racing stripes.
It’s only a little work to make it ready for flight, and before long it rises into the sky, passing through clouds the same color as its balloon. Patrishia sits at the controls, patient as the dirigible is slow. There is no fast travel in the sky, but her generation is too young to miss it.
The dirigible rises above the clouds. To the south lies Tahoma, glowing in the sun, appearing as an island in a frothing surf of white.
She pulls levers to turn the vehicle southward, in the direction of the mountain.
Tags: dirigible, postcard stories
