Flying The Plane

The anxiety begins the day of the trip, building to a climax as we race down the runway. The jet is loosed, shot into the sky by cloaked bowmen in the tower.

Fear becomes a clammy, creeping creature, winding coils around my stomach and heart, twisting through my neck and throat with nauseous constriction. When the narcotic rush enters my head, I hallucinate ugly visions. The plane is going down.

We will all fall to our deaths, a swift descent to ripping shredding and bone crunching. This scene is filmed from numerous angles which I must view and edit for greatest effect. I laugh bitterly at all statistics, fervently desiring to be more dangerously placed in any automobile.

God is not my co-pilot; or I panicked and wrestled the controls out of His hands. Attentive now, I strain to catch every creak and whine of the aircraft, convinced it is only by mental exertion that I might fly this plane.