by James Hanley
"Don't overcompensate," the instructor warned. In the following lessons, Keith became more comfortable with the controls once airborne but struggled with maneuvering the plane in a rectangular pattern of landing and taking off: touch and go, his instructor called it. To pay for his lessons, Keith took a job as a teller in the local savings bank.
On overcast days, Keith lifted the nose of the aircraft to ascend to the tantalizing clouds that seemed to move away from him as if in a game of chase. The instructor grabbed the wheel and gruffly said, "This is not a goddamn F-16; go on an airliner if you want to fly that high."
On the following weekend a fast-moving front pushed a row of clouds across the startled New England sky. Granite cumuli lingered and shook off ice droplets and chilling rain. Keith had booked several hours of flying time for Saturday.
The instructor watched Keith complete his pre-check and sat passively as his student flew the plane to the edge of nearby golf course, circled and turned back to the airfield.
After landing and taxiing to the hangar area, the instructor stepped out and said to Keith, "You take it up by yourself." The air was still but low strata moved across the sky. Keith flew level until the airport was well behind him and the buildings on the edge of the city were thin columns of concrete. Lifting the nose of the aircraft, Keith climbed at an angle sufficient to avoid stalling, ascending until the gauges shook and the sunlight was filtered through the gauze edge of clouds. The instructor waved uselessly from the ground.
Keith climbed higher until into the womb of the thick cloud and surrounded by the battering moisture, he felt elated. Within a few minutes, however, the plane's wings no longer shuddered, the plane's propeller blew a path through the tattered cloud and the sun punched through. Patches of ground showed below. The defeated clouds spit him out like a Jonah, and Keith pushed down on the yoke.
The small airport runway appeared like a cut path in a cluttered field. The wheels of the airplane struck the runway concrete hard, bounced, then settled into a slow roll until stopping at the runaway edge. The instructor ran to the plane and slapped Keith on the back. But Keith, mourning the loss of reverence, didn't hear him.
All content in SmokeLong Quarterly copyright 2003-2014 by its authors.
James Hanley has been a Human Resources professional for 30 years and began writing fiction several years ago. He's had works published in professional journals but fiction is his real pleasure. He's had stories published in literary and mystery magazines (e.g. South Dakota Review, Futures).
Read the interview.
|Issue Seventeen (June 15, 2007): Renoir Responds to Aline Charigotís Charges of Painting Her Ugly by Daniel Bailey «» Cymothoa Exigua by Christopher Battle «» Oblivious by Gary Cadwallader «» The Wedge in Between by Debbie Ann Eis «» One Purple Finch by Kathy Fish «» Clouds by James Hanley «» Mousafa's Woman by Kyle Hemmings «» First Night by Ric Jahna «» My Great-Aunt Meets Jesus at the Mobil Station in Montana by Stephanie Johnson «» Old Leningrad by Sandra Maddux-Creech «» Selective Memory by Mary McCluskey «» The Attraction of Asphalt by Stefani Nellen «» Of Potential by Jim Nelson «» Portrait of a Mother, Beforehand J.M. Patrick «» Midnight in Albuquerque by Tiffany Poremba «» Flatlining in the Edward G. Bellacosta Memorial Park by Jake Ruiter «» Prow by Claudia Smith «» I Know This Man; He is My Father. by Tavia Stewart «» In the Last Frame by Beth Thomas «» My First Two-Headed Boy by Veronica Thorn «» Interviews: Bob Arter «» Daniel Bailey «» Christopher Battle «» Gary Cadwallader «» Debbie Ann Eis «» Kathy Fish «» James Hanley «» Kyle Hemmings «» Ric Jahna «» Stephanie Johnson «» Sandra Maddux-Creech «» Mary McCluskey «» Stefani Nellen «» Jim Nelson «» J.M. Patrick «» Tiffany Poremba «» Jake Ruiter «» Claudia Smith «» Tavia Stewart «» Beth Thomas «» Veronica Thorn «» Cover Art "Peace in a Time of Monsters" by Marty D. Ison «» Letter From the Editor|