Wings

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It was a pretty good day to die. The Jenny plunged toward the earth in a determined spin, and the grassed over farmland spun into a kaleidoscope of a thousand shades of green. A hundred more feet, and it was all over. The plane would be unable to rise after that. A gloved hand bickered with the vibration of the stick and gently coaxed it to the right. Slowly, the twirling of the metal bird, like a top falling out of its spin, uncoiled as it inched up toward the silky blue sky.

The pilot pressed back into the seat and pulled the stick between both thighs. A leather ear-flapped cap framed goggles that shielded the pilot’s eyes from the air that blasted into the open cockpit.

“Good girl, now let’s go again.”

Briefly brushing the blue, the nose of the plane passed up and over curling into a tight inside loop, and the engine screamed with its efforts.

The pilot’s delicate touch moved the stick back to center and trimmed the flight to a straight away.

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