Friday, October 20, 2006
Momentum. or. Jihad is an eight year old girl.
The little girl was crying again. It made him nervous. His fellow soldiers didn't have family, didn't have the burden of empathy. They were born for this. bred. But educated men with pilot training weren't as easy to find. Concessions were made.
He had traded shifts with the weekend pilot, he wasn't even supposed to be there. His wife had started chemo, this was the only way he could get the time off to be with her.
His daughter was about the same age as the crying girl, same hair. When he looked back, all he could see was his own wife, his daughter. He knew the others were watching him, to make sure he didn't falter, or lose faith.
He remembered the last pilot's strike, how angry he was at the union for dragging it out so long. It was selfish, he thought, the tiny things they were sticking on. He realized just at the end, some of it was on spousal support, in case something happened to him. In the end, he was happy concessions were made.
Shaking now. the whole plane was shaking, stress it wasn't meant to carry. He didn't know how to stop it, if he even could. They would catch him, they would know. He looked back at her again. his hand hovered over the landing gear control. shaking.
