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A few days ago I opened Word and just started typing crap. Usually when I make a story it goes something like this.
1 - Incredibly vague idea sprung from random something
2 - Build-up on idea, thinking, more ideas, combining ideas for a month or more
3 - Question to myself: "Does this idea still seem good?"
4 - If yes, continue, if no, write down the basic idea in case I can pick it up later
5 - More thinking
6 - Start writing developed idea for about a week or month
7 - Get bored of idea and do other stuff
8 - Come back to idea, wonder "What the hell did I leave this for?" and finish.
But here it was just:
He woke up on the plane and forgot, just for a second, why he was there. Of course anyone that knew his situation would be shocked to know that he could forget it, even for only a second. He was tall and thin, built like a keyless flute with arms and legs and a head, topped with brown hair that looked graying even thought he wasn't even thirty. His passport put his name as Arthur Fields, but that was the fifth name he'd used in the last week.
Water passed by under the '747 like a sheet of blue glass, calm as a morning springtime rain when you just sit in bed and listen. A stewardess walked by with a cart and Arthur Fields, for today at least, took a bag of peanuts. He opened the packet without trouble and wondered why comedians complained about them.
A bit too salty, however.
Arthur rolled the peanuts around in his hand like one does with dice before eating them, one by one. The coastline came into view and Arthur took a breath. He felt it all down his throat, into his lungs, filling them. His heart beat faster when he stood and a few peanuts spilled onto the empty seat next to him.
“Hey, uh, everybody?” Arthur said, but they didn't all hear, or ignored him.
“Hey! You're all going to have to sit down. I've uh,” he unzipped the thick coat, “I've got a bomb.”
The people gasped and looked around in fear. Parents held their children close and the stewardesses backed away slowly.
“It's gonna be fine, just shut up, I have to borrow the plane.”
Arthur walked down the aisle and people recoiled away on the left and right. He knocked three times at the cockpit door like you'd do at your grandmother's house. No threat, no urgency, just knock knock knock.
“Yeah?” the copilot said, opening the door. Arthur pointed to the red, baton-shaped things wired around his chest. The copilot just said “s**t” and backed into the cockpit.
“Who is it?” the pilot said, not turning around. The copilot just kept looking between Arthur's face and the equipment. The pilot finally turned, looked at Arthur, and said “s**t.” Arthur just nodded and waved his hand to the side.
“Get up, I need to use that. Seriously, do it or I'll blow us all up.”
The pilot stumbled a little as he backed away from the chair. Arthur just sat down and gripped the controls. Turned the broad control stick. Stick would be an inaccurate term for the thing. It was shaped kind of like a figure-eight, slanted, like an infinity symbol, colored hospital white. The '747 angled a sharp right and turned down a little. The cabin grew darker as the plane turned away from the setting sun and headed due west. Arthur nodded as if to say, “Okay, good.” Then he stood and looked between the pilots.
“Keep it like that for,” he checked his watch, “about five minutes. Then you can go back toward the usual landing.”
Arthur left the cockpit and found the people just as frightened and unaccommodating as before. He walked back down the aisle and returned to his seat. He took his overlarge, new duffle bag from the overhead compartment and unzipped it. Pulled out the parachute and hoisted it over his shoulders. They all watched him walk to the door and just stand there, his eyes on his watch.
Is he really going to jump?
What's going on?
What's he doing with that bomb?
Did I leave the oven on at home? Arthur looked up at the occupants.
“Buckle up, please,” he said, and they all did or looked down to make sure they already were. Then he unsealed the door and forced it open. Air rushed in, throwing loose objects around, making a cacophony of a sound: a rushing, motor sound like a train going in circles full speed inside a tornado. Heedless, Arthur wedged himself through the door and it slammed shut and resealed behind him.
The air tore around Arthur's body as he dropped, heading closer and closer to the looming, green expanse below. The boughs of the thousands of trees below dimmed, shadowing each other as the sun dipped below the horizon, though Arthur could still see it as high as he was. He yanked the rip cord and was pulled up with a sudden thwump above him as the chute caught air. The wind slowed, the fall turned to a float, and Arthur took another breath—one that felt like his first since before he dropped the peanuts.
Arthur Fields, for today at least, crashed through a few more branches than he wanted to, but landed on the dark ground with little trouble. He walked to the clearing and removed himself from the parachute pack. Took off the jacket long enough to remove the red wooden dowels. All he had needed were wooden dowels, red paint, a few feet of wire from Circuit City, and an LED light to flicker menacingly--the only things needed to make a fake bomb on a child's allowance.
Arthur put the jacket back on and looked along the lining under his arm. The six throwing stars were still arranged there. He pulled the flare gun from his pocket and aimed it at a star, checked his watch.
“Seven fifteen.”
Arthur fired the flare gun. The red, star-like flare shot into the air, ascending to its peak in a sharp arc, then hovered down, slowly, waiting just like Arthur was. Within a minute he heard the thumping of the helicopter blades and took another breath that felt like the first since he’d been in the air.
Tell me what you think, and say so if you're interested in more. I do indeed have more.
It should also be noted that since Arthur managed to get a flare gun on the plane and what looked like a bomb, which would be nigh impossible in modern times, and since you guys know I'm not a moron you know that the story must be set in a pre-9/11 world. This we call reading between the lines.
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