The Last Flight of the Pussycat
Writing Battle: Summer 2024 entry. 250 words. 64th Place.
2024
Read at the Writing Battle Site
Entry for Writing Battle: Summer 2024
Genre: Inanimate Romance
Character: Pilot
Object: Shackles
250 Words.
30 years of flying. Tens of thousands of miles flown. One bad flight to fuck that up.
He could never stay grounded. They could take his license, revoke his certifications, take his damn pilot’s cap, but so long as he had working hands and a pulse, he was flying. He’ll fly with her. One way or another.
30 years of flying. One flight that he shouldn’t have survived. One that everyone else didn’t.
Pussycat. His call-sign back in the day. Her name. She introduced him to it all. She was a firm, but fair, teacher. Which buttons to hit, what switches to flip, every inch of wire and cable and where it went. She patiently waited as he stumbled through the lessons, guiding him through it all.
30 years of flying. Just one more flight. No destination.
He pulled away the canopy cover. A Cessna 150, almost as old as he was. Wrinkles of rust dotted her body. He unlocked the shackles to the plane door and sat in the cockpit.
She was older now, but still recognizable. He knew every curve and bump on her, every piece of chipped paint and the story behind it, all the noises she made and how to fix them. The feel of her yoke, the push back of her pedals, the glare her glass made at the right angles.
He turned the key. Her engine roared like an aged lion. Mighty but frail.
Just one more flight.
A flight that will never end.