Rather than bore you with false promises of what I'll be posting on here and how often I'll update, have something different.
SKYBOURNE
The helicopter's twin rotors fought the storm as best they could, the tremendous sound nearly beaten out by the crash of thunder and the howling of the north wind. On board, the pilot fought to keep the aircraft stable and on course. Around him, the slew of buttons and controls blinked and buzzed in an order only someone in his position could understand. The radio signal had long since died, leaving in its wake an eerie static that seemed to whisper to him- don't bother fighting this. It's a wasted endeavour, and you're well aware of that.
The pilot gritted his teeth and tightened his grip on the joystick, trying to keep on course. Now wasn't the time to give up. He had a mission to accomplish, and he was hell bent on getting there.
The aircraft was old but strong; and she braced herself against the storm with a ferverous passion to complete what was likely to be her last journey. The ocean frothed beneath her, waves reaching out to stroke her maliciously, begging her to become one with the ocean. She pointed her nose toward the sky and trucked on, ignoring the ever-present pull of the ocean.
The tropical storms of the Pacific islands were well-documented, but the pilot had never found the time to worry about the weather so far from his home in Portland. Right now, fighting against the wind and the rain for his life, he wished he had. His chopper wasn't fit for this kind of beating. She was once a military convoy, shipping soldiers back and forth from home to the middle east. With that war a passing memory, she had found a new life, and now it figured that the seemingly less dangerous one would be the end of them both.
Struggling in the cockpit, the pilot called out for help again, but there was no tower in range to pick up his signal. With a choking sob, he dropped the radio to the floor of the copter. I'm going to die here. I'm going to die, totally alone, in the middle of some god-forsaken ocean, he thought with another racking sob. He was not yet thirty, still young. He had a beautiful girlfriend waiting for him back home, parents who had bright hopes for his future, a little brother who looked up to him. What would they think? He was once the best helicopter pilot in his state, what would he be if he failed?
He shook his head, squeezing the joystick tighter. Negative thoughts weren't going to get the job done. With determination brewing in his heart, he set the engines to full power-something he never did, for fear the craft wouldn't be able to take it-and angled forward dangerously.
She did as he bade, cutting through the treacherous gale force winds like a ship cutting through the tumultuous waves of the ocean. Behind the controls, the pilot felt like the captain of some ancient ship, fighting for his life and the safety of his vessel; braving time after time whatever the world threw at him if it meant the slightest chance of a better life.
He didn't feel anything when the helicopter started to plummet to the ground. He didn't feel the wind and the rain on his face, nor the shards of glass that bit into his skin. His head simply lolled on his chest as the aircraft fell through the air, her rotors still trying their best to keep skybourne. When the impact came, he couldn't smell the smoke, or hear the frenzied cries of the village people. The hands grabbing at him might as well have been those of ghosts. Ghosts that breathed into him, pumped on his chest, crying out to him in desperation. Above him lay the broken silhouette of his best partner, his former friend, laden with the food, water and medicine Borneo so desperately needed in wake of the tsunami.
The job was done.
The helicopter's twin rotors fought the storm as best they could, the tremendous sound nearly beaten out by the crash of thunder and the howling of the north wind. On board, the pilot fought to keep the aircraft stable and on course. Around him, the slew of buttons and controls blinked and buzzed in an order only someone in his position could understand. The radio signal had long since died, leaving in its wake an eerie static that seemed to whisper to him- don't bother fighting this. It's a wasted endeavour, and you're well aware of that.
The pilot gritted his teeth and tightened his grip on the joystick, trying to keep on course. Now wasn't the time to give up. He had a mission to accomplish, and he was hell bent on getting there.
The aircraft was old but strong; and she braced herself against the storm with a ferverous passion to complete what was likely to be her last journey. The ocean frothed beneath her, waves reaching out to stroke her maliciously, begging her to become one with the ocean. She pointed her nose toward the sky and trucked on, ignoring the ever-present pull of the ocean.
The tropical storms of the Pacific islands were well-documented, but the pilot had never found the time to worry about the weather so far from his home in Portland. Right now, fighting against the wind and the rain for his life, he wished he had. His chopper wasn't fit for this kind of beating. She was once a military convoy, shipping soldiers back and forth from home to the middle east. With that war a passing memory, she had found a new life, and now it figured that the seemingly less dangerous one would be the end of them both.
Struggling in the cockpit, the pilot called out for help again, but there was no tower in range to pick up his signal. With a choking sob, he dropped the radio to the floor of the copter. I'm going to die here. I'm going to die, totally alone, in the middle of some god-forsaken ocean, he thought with another racking sob. He was not yet thirty, still young. He had a beautiful girlfriend waiting for him back home, parents who had bright hopes for his future, a little brother who looked up to him. What would they think? He was once the best helicopter pilot in his state, what would he be if he failed?
He shook his head, squeezing the joystick tighter. Negative thoughts weren't going to get the job done. With determination brewing in his heart, he set the engines to full power-something he never did, for fear the craft wouldn't be able to take it-and angled forward dangerously.
She did as he bade, cutting through the treacherous gale force winds like a ship cutting through the tumultuous waves of the ocean. Behind the controls, the pilot felt like the captain of some ancient ship, fighting for his life and the safety of his vessel; braving time after time whatever the world threw at him if it meant the slightest chance of a better life.
He didn't feel anything when the helicopter started to plummet to the ground. He didn't feel the wind and the rain on his face, nor the shards of glass that bit into his skin. His head simply lolled on his chest as the aircraft fell through the air, her rotors still trying their best to keep skybourne. When the impact came, he couldn't smell the smoke, or hear the frenzied cries of the village people. The hands grabbing at him might as well have been those of ghosts. Ghosts that breathed into him, pumped on his chest, crying out to him in desperation. Above him lay the broken silhouette of his best partner, his former friend, laden with the food, water and medicine Borneo so desperately needed in wake of the tsunami.
The job was done.
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