by Daryl Baldwin
I amble to the
Spitfire and conduct pre-flight checks. Guns in
place. Propeller fixed since the last fight.
Paintwork touched up. Rudder and ailerons in
working order. The cockpit seat needs adjustment.
No time got to fly. I give the instrument
panel a light dusting. Good as new. Time to find
out what she can do.
I see the
runway from the control tower. Grass and
allotments surrounds the concrete. A woman
waltzes among the runner beans while her husband
stabs the earth with a pitchfork, loosening the
crop of potatoes. A church spire looms in the
foreground attempting to touch the sky. Hills
complete the horizon. Overhead are early signs of
a summer storm; a strong north wind whips at the
Air speed good
and in the right direction. Excellent. Ready for
take-off. Adrenalin courses through my body.
Breathing shallow. Do pilots feel like this
before flight? I need to find out.
like a kestrel on thermals; hovering before her
plummet to the runway. The light frame crashes
hard, nose landing first and spinning onto its
wings, leaving a trail of debris strewn across
finds his model hes going to kill me.