A little writing exercise I'm quite fond of, which got the stone Rolling for my "Growing Pains"-Series, but isn't a part of it. Feedback is most appreciated and encouraged!
Enjoy!
In Plane Sight.
She'd seen it all.
Forged in fire, she'd witnessed war, storms, oceans, land, and places no one believed existed.
She'd known many, but they came and went.
Until he came and he stayed.
The pilot - her pilot - had once been called 'cub' and 'boy', but he'd grown. In size, in weight, in age; and in talent.
Other names rang out to him: Ace, hot-shot, comrade.
Friends came and went, but he stayed.
He talked to her, treated her like a living being.
Their love for the skies was shared and endless.
.
Until one day, while skimming the salty waters of a well-known port, a slight weight landed on her tail-plane just as she left for the horizon.
The sleight-weight was almost bothersomely light, but the words of praise for her that her pilot exchanged with the high-pitched voice would've made her blush, if it were blood and not gasoline running through her veins.
She liked the light-weight.
The second seat became occupied by the tiny thing more and more often until it was no longer the friends' seat. It was his. The Navigator's.
Her pilot showed his love for him with gentleness, as well as trust to hold against a storm. Just as he did with her.
The words 'cub' and 'boy' returned, accompanied by many others, fondly spoken in the deep voice that echoed effortlessly through her hull.
The word 'son' rang out and left her navigator breathless. That's how she knew it was important.
Laughter echoed through her often. Pilot didn't talk as much with her anymore, but - for endless hours - she listened eagerly to their words of planes, plans, and new horizons. She'd keep all their secrets.
There was a lot of sighing too, usually from the larger weight when the other seat remained empty on long flights.
Then there were times when Pilot's seat was occupied by both of them. The tiny hold on the yolk was so much gentler than the big, familiar one, almost reverently.
Though, if the pilot's seat was occupied by only the navigator - usually when he was all alone and she was secured to the port - his grip was tight and firm in his play. Then they flew through enemy skies and pirate swarms; for glory and honor.
The weight in the second seat increased, as did the times her navigator switched places with the pilot.
The tiny hold on her controls had grown in size and boldness, until it was almost indistinguishable from Pilot's.
.
.
Then there was nothing.
.
.
Darkness.
.
.
Silence.
.
.
For a long time, she was left alone.
No wind under her wings and no water under her pontoons.
Abandoned without a warning, without a crash; hidden away in a large hollow place.
.
.
Then one day, a familiar presence filled her once again.
But no laughter and no joy sounded in her cockpit.
His touch was careful, apologetic... unsettling.
There were sighs and sounds like a stuttering engine.
She hummed as tiny drops of salt water hit the control panel.
.
He was so much gentler than she remembered, easing her back into action.
There was no more play.
.
The navigator became the pilot.
And when he spoke to her, it was no longer in the tickling, high pitch of youth.
.
.
And for the longest time, the second seat remained empty.
.
.
.
The End.