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Flight 107

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Original Writing A ripple of agitation begins to creep along the aircraft, just as a Mexican wave unfolds along a soccer stadium. Voices mutter and murmur, discussing the unknown cause of the delay, like wasps buzzing in anger. An electronic voice vibrates above the passengers' heads as it announces in a perfect British accent "British Airways flight 107, will depart as soon as possible. We ask you to wait patiently. Thank you for your co-operation." Because we really have a choice, trapped on this small aircraft, packed tightly together like a tin of sardines. Life outside the protected metal cocoon continued as normal. As I gaze wistfully through the window, I can see the airport personnel, scurrying industriously like mice, across the black sea of mirrored tarmac. They go about their duties in an oblivious, organised, robotic manner that seems to have been rehearsed hundreds of times before. Baggage carts, security, maintenance, police, catering trucks, more security and reporters. There is certainly increased activity tonight. Why would there be reporters on the tarmac? Why is there so much security? Armed security! I look frantically around me, only I seem to have adopted this paroxysm of frightening thoughts that invade my mind, spiralling uncontrollably due to the lack of information from that perfect, British, electronic voice. ...read more.


The operators 'happy to be here' faces are impressed on my mind. 'Takes about forty five seconds' I remember them saying, for the elevator to soar up the one hundred and seventy storeys, like a soldier climbs a 60ft rope. 'The top of the world' the sign read, as I stepped out of the elevator it certainly, seemed that way! A strong and untouchable mountain. A symbol of American might and power! Higher than the sight seeing helicopters, the sprawling metropolis of Manhattan below, a model village to be played with. Yellow cabs crawl in slow motion, snaking their way along the dense jungle like floor. Silence from behind the thick protected glass, impenetrable concrete and steel, yet strangely precarious and vulnerable. The plane door is completely pulled back. I daren't look, but my eyes are hypnotically transfixed. Must not..look..away! Still waiting, but for what? No sound from that perfect electronic voice. No information, and so once gain I am left to my own uncontrollable imagination. The Twin Towers, I can see all their faces now. Ticket sales, operators, a gift shop worker from Chicago working her vocation in the gift shop at 'the top of the world'. ...read more.


Once more, closed off from the penetrating realities of the outside world. Safe, within a metal womb. Flight attendants conscientiously carry out their duties, checking seat belts, and demonstrating safety procedures. The stagnant, air is warm and stifling. The musty odour from the previous long-haul is still lingering, stubbornly within the fabric of the plane, mingling with the sweltering passengers. The air rapidly feels nauseating. Well, I should look on the bright side of life. I would rather be sat here, safe and protected, for the time being, than with those shallow, condescending, superficial people I call my friends. I begin to relax as the plane takes the troubles off my shoulders for the journey and it pushes off the ground and begins its own struggle upwards. I sigh as I look out of the window, the lights of the city gradually dwindle like candles running out of fuel. It seems now that I am not the one waiting, I am on my way to a home, to a life that has waited for me in my absence. Maybe I am not the only person who waits. Perhaps my specious friends are waiting also, for life to deal them a better deck of cards. ...read more.

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