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Alan Hlad
challenging maneuver, the tailslide. He did a quarter loop that sent the plane straight vertical, with full power. Wind whistled. His adrenaline rushed. The aircraft continued to climb until it lost momentum, then hung for a second before falling backward. As the nose dropped through the horizon, he pushed the stick forward and sent the plane into a dive. He pulled hard on the stick and leveled off a few feet above the lake, much too close for comfort. His pulse pounded in his ears. He saw the girl standing on the shoreline clapping her hands. As he swooped by the cottage, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a note that was tied to a small piece of wood. He released the package. It fell gently to a grass clearing several yards from the shoreline. The girl ran to the package, untied the string, and read the note. Thanks for being a great audience. Ollie. The girl waved her arms. And he flew away. Ollie eased back the throttle and zigzagged on his way home, maximizing his time in the air before he’d have to begin his farm chores. As he neared Buxton, the thick forest of pines turned to rolling plots of corn, potatoes, and hay. As the family farm came into view, he noticed his father’s truck was gone, replaced with a shiny new-model car. He swooped over and saw a man in dark clothing standing on the porch. He banked around to the runway and landed. Ollie cut the engine, got out of the cockpit, and walked to the house. As he approached, he glanced at the ’39 Plymouth with an unmistakable white top and green sides. The Portland police officer stepped from the porch and removed his cap, exposing a bald head with stubbly gray sideburns. “Oliver Evans?” the officer asked. A knot formed in Ollie’s gut. “Yes.” “There’s been an accident.” Ollie opened his mouth, but nothing came out. “It’s your parents.”
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– The Long Flight Home by Alan Hlad –