Plummet

Plummet

A Chapter by MightyMouse

Man used to have a dream of flying. ‘Wouldn’t it be nice to soar among the clouds with the songbirds and the great eagles?’ said a great many. But not many enough. ‘Tis but a mere fantasy. Man will never fly.’

            A select few wouldn’t give up though. They say, ‘The only thing impossible is impossibilities.’ And so they began their work. Four hundred years ago, the great Leonardo Da Vinci drew model air planes and helicopters. He even proposed the idea of a parachute saying, ‘If man had a tent made of linen with the apertures having all been stopped up, and it be twelve braccia across and twelve in depth, he will be able to throw himself from any great height without suffering any injury.’ Later, on September 19, 1783, Pilatre De Rozier launched the first hot air balloon consisting of a sheep, a duck, and a rooster for its passengers and it stayed in the air for fifteen minutes before it crashed from lack of a pilot. Then the impossible was thought to have finally been achieved. On December 17, 1903 Orville and Wilbur Wright became the first men to ever touch the sky near Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. Men couldn’t stop there because one good thing can never be good enough, so in 1928 the amazing Amelia Earhart flew as a passenger across the Atlantic Ocean prompting her attempted flight around the globe in 1937.

The design of the flying machines improved in efficiency and comfort until man ended up with its current aircraft design. A large silver and white cylinder with two wings, massive engines, and hundreds of fancy seats equipped with seat belts nobody uses. They included carpets, storage compartments, bathrooms, stewards, and tiny little carts pushed up and down skinny aisles full of food freely given and often wasted. Flight was demoted from one of man’s greatest achievements to a luxury often taken for granted.

            Yet, here I am. Bulky, blue, fluffy seats. Thin gray carpet. Three seats are on each side of the aisle, and twenty four rows all together. It’s a large aircraft, and it makes me nervous. A noisy cart is pushed down the center aisle stopping at each row of seats. A woman with red hair pulled tightly back in a neat bun, dressed in a blue flight attendant outfit, and a friendly smile forced on her lips, offers each passenger some complimentary peanuts and a juice box. The cart stops at our row. I politely decline the offer and the cart is pushed away.

            I stare to my left out the window two seats away. Very dark gray clouds swarm underneath the aircraft reminding me of a rolling sea during a hurricane. A very bad storm is brewing. My eyes refocus on the window shinning my reflection back at me. I can’t seem to get them to focus past my reflection on the brewing storm, so I look myself over. My hair is blue as the clearest ocean on just the tips, natural, but this day in age everyone thinks its dye. Good for them, I won’t be mistaken for a witch any more. I have it cut short, the white underneath the blue is only about an inch long. It falls perfectly on my head without the aid of a brush or gel. I push it back and watch it fall back down, not a hair out of place. My eyes drift down the rest of me. Everything about me is sharp. My cheek bones, my chin, my collar bone, all small and sharp. My face is thin with lack of food and my plain green t-shirt hangs from my shoulders loosely. I adjust the straps on my small brown backpack and feel the air from the ventilation system drift up under my loose t-shirt making me shiver. I left my jacket in my other bag. My other bag is in cargo. I silently curse my luck. It’s completely unnatural to need a jacket indoors.

The aircraft suddenly begins to shake causing me to tune into my surroundings rather than worrying about my jacket in cargo. A voice crackles through the speakers advising passengers to buckle their seats belts for mild turbulence. My eyes briefly flicker to their worried reflections in the dark window. Orange as a blazing fire, swirls a shade darker, like smoke, snake around my irises unnaturally. My eyes look alive in a way that’s unsettling. Nobody aside from me ever looks into my eyes.

            I slide a dark pair of sunglasses onto my face and quickly buckle my seat belt, and the seat belt of my two companions, strapping them together. My companions are twins, one a boy and the other a girl. They’re only four years old, and they’re my responsibility for lack of better options. They are identical, but they have different eyes. Jessea’s eyes are as golden as butterscotch, Jessamine’s are as brown as milk chocolate. Both have beautiful golden brown hair, Jessea’s long, Jessamine’s short. Jessamine is three inches taller than his sister, but barely two and a half feet tall himself. Their feet barely touch the edge of the seat they’re sitting in. I put their seat belts across their laps and slip it behind their backs rather than their fronts. The aircraft rattles again, harder this time. The twins grab each other’s hands and hold on, but don’t say anything.

            Children everywhere else begin to cry. The adults try to comfort them while trying to remain calm themselves. The pilot’s voice drones on and on about turbulence and assuring everyone’s safety, but the aircraft is at an almost constant rattle now. The speakers and lights begin to flicker and things begin to fall out of the storage compartments. The little clear and yellow emergency masks fall out and a few people grab them. I just swat mine out of the way and sit up straighter in my seat. Things are starting to get a little terrifying, and as I’m thinking it, the lights flicker off again, and don’t turn back on. For a moment the aircraft is suspended in the air like Wyle Coyote before he realizes he’s run off a cliff. Then the front begins to tip. The aircraft plummets to the ground.

            Everywhere, everyone is screaming. The twins hug each other with their eyes squeezed tightly shut. I cling to my seat hoping the power will turn back on before the aircraft runs out of sky to recover, though I hold little hope. The ground is coming up fast through the window. The world blurring through the glass, reddening with the threat of fire. I can’t wait any longer. The aircraft isn’t recovering. I throw my seat belt off and grab the twins who are still sitting silently hugging each other with their eyes closed. I reach for my extra-long belt, unstrap one side of it, but don’t take it off. Instead, I feed it through the belt loops of both twins and then rebuckle it so they’re strapped to me.

            I begin punching the window with everything I have. Shockwaves travel through my arms with each impact and then my knuckles tear leaving blood droplets on the glass. I don’t stop swinging. I need it to break so we can get away from the aircraft. It’s going to explode when it hits the ground and I definitely don’t want to be inside. The first crack finally appears in the glass. It starts small, and slowly grows with every hit. The window finally shatters and objects in the aircraft are ripped through the small window tearing the metal around it until the hole occupies at least half of the left side of the aircraft. Seat belts unbuckle by accident and passengers are ripped through the hole, myself and the twins included. People are screaming as they fall through the sky, but a few are unconscious, or already dead and they fall through the air creating the image of human leaves on a gruesome autumn day.

            The twins wrap their small arms around my neck as we fall. They trust me to save them because they know what I have. My backpack, used on the special occasions when we are forced to fly. It has two cords that hang from the outside. I pull one and wrap my arms around the twins holding their heads against my shoulders so their necks don’t snap when we our speed drastically decreases. A parachute floats out of my backpack and unravels fully without incident. The parachute catches enough air to slow us down, and we’re jerked roughly almost causing me to lose my grip on the twins. We collectively sigh in relief and gently float towards the ground.

            The aircraft on the other hand, is quickly descending at an almost vertical tilt. It leaves a trail of smoke through the sky and random things that have been yanked through the hole. Everything plummets to the ground and shatters upon impact. It’s landed in what looks like a desert. Some cacti are littered here and there dramatically burning to a crisp. Humans are red splatters on the ground between the cacti. The horrific scene reminds me of an abstract oil painting. It’s beautiful in a way that makes me feel completely disgusted. I make the twins look away from it.

            The aircraft finally hits the ground exploding into a thousand pieces of shrapnel. Our parachute brings us down almost in the middle of the crash. Things are on fire all around, and as far as I can tell, there’s nothing left. No human being could survive a crash like that. I unhook the twins from me and place them down on the ground being careful to set them down away from any flames. I quickly, but efficiently, stuff the parachute back into its bag before it can catch on fire as well.

            Sirens sound somewhere in the distance. The police and fire departments will be arriving shortly. I take the twins’ hands and lead them through the rubble trying to keep their attention away from the sight of burning bodies. We wait patiently for the emergency vehicles to arrive just on the outside of the crash. A police car pulls up within five minutes and an officer gets out. He appears stunned to see the three of us standing in front of the crash with hardly a scratch, but composes himself because, I assume, he has a job to do. He reaches a hand out to me, a gesture suggesting that he would like me to come with him. I give Jessea’s hand to Jessamine and replace it with the officer’s. He drags me to an ambulance that is pulling up behind him to be looked over. The officer pulls out a small note pad and asks for my name. He explains that he needs to make a list of survivors so he can notify their families and other such nonsense. I tell him. “My name is Storm Oliver and these are Jessea and Jessamine Nixie. You won’t find our families, sir. We’re on our way to the orphanage.”


© 2016 MightyMouse



Author's Note

MightyMouse
Just tell me if it needs work. Don't hold back.

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It reminds me of when I was in middle school and I was taking creative writing classes. When I look back on what I wrote in that class, lots of my writings look like rubbish now. You know, I believe when we get to write more and better with time, our old writings are ok but not as polished as recent writings. That's what I found with my own writing: it gets better in time...like wine.

Posted 1 Year Ago


MightyMouse

1 Year Ago

Lol, so does it need work???
GalaxyGhost

1 Year Ago

So far, I just read to enjoy story and I didn't catch errors.
MightyMouse

1 Year Ago

Okay, thanks.

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Added on September 20, 2016
Last Updated on September 20, 2016


Author

MightyMouse
MightyMouse

Dayton, TX



About
I enjoy writing and I want to know if other people enjoy my writing. I live in a house full of seven people, three of them children, thirteen dogs, and ten cats. I have a twin sister with only one leg.. more..

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