Flying Travel Monologue

Flying. Dancing. Tumbling. Falling. My head slams down onto my keyboard. The sound waking other drifters as the sound of clicking and scratching continues. What used to be nails against chalkboards is now grafite against wood. As paper and pencil clash for hours. Their rhythm filling the stiff air. I cough, embarrassed that I had let myself fall asleep during work hours. Turning toward my computer I begin to type. “July 13 2*** , By Marley Hughes. Following up on the terrible and highly unfortunate accident on March 7 2*** when Arline Gypsy went down…….” Looking towards my window I watched a flock of doves sail past. Their tiny chests puffed out like turkey’s and their wings like swans they let the wind carry them. And I began to think, “What if I had been on that plane?” , “You’d die.” came a reply, sharp and cold.
“Back to work daydreamer.” Childishly, I sneer. Facing my screen I begin to type again. “Niece of victim, Connie Newton, found that with help from agents that it was no accident.” Once more my mind drifted to a place where walls grew high and marvelous. In the center there sits a woman her wig white and sophisticated. “Tell me Ms. Hughes, who has committed this awful crime?” From a sitting position I’ll rise. Facing the judge and jury I’d begin, “See this man.” I’d produced the photo, “It was him.” With a cheer the crowd will rise and together we’d take down the mastermind. We’d face off and he’ll say….. “You’ll die.” Suddenly, I’m jarred back into reality; to grey walls and dull eyes. This time she stands over me a load of papers in her hands. “Back to work daydreamer.” After slamming the sheets onto my desk she walks away with a puff of air. Sighing, I take a break from the computer. Turning toward the pile I take the first of many down and begin to write. Scratch, Scratch, SCratCH, SCRatCH, SCRATCH,