The fortress emerged ignorantly from the earth. Blocky towers and walls squared the cliffside; the natural terrain began and ended abruptly and untouched by the builders. Even Lake [cool name], a huge thing with bigger boats than I know the names for, was no impediment. Its dark icy surface refected the well-cut stone and continued the Pathagorian line started high above my position. If this castle rose from depths; what might it contain?
300 Meters Backline
Day 437
Expert training dulled Bradford’s instinctual reaction to wheel like a barracuda at flashing metal, but he did round the mains forward to bring the Jack Rabbit to a contemplative hover after 300 meters. In the first two days following their initial incursion patrols had picked up a handful of refugees—even less combatants. Every effort since had been bust.
Considering all the possible options Bradford realized he’d have to investigate on the ground. “Crap.”
“[Bradford’s call sign to ‘base’]”
“[This is ‘base’, Continue]”
“See my vector?” Bradford gave the operator time to swig some coffee to wash down the donut he’d heard in her voice. “Body on the ground 300 meters backline. Port. Returning to investigate on foot.” Bradford waited while the operator came to the same conclusion why he was exiting the aircraft personally.
“Understood. Human?” Bradford thought a moment.
“80% affirmative.”
OK thats all I could write before I got totally sucked in figuring out the radio chatter.
Bradford’s Instinctual Reaction
It feels like Friday. I think I even told someone it was Friday. I hope that doesn’t screw up their day.
In 435 days of writing 1000 Days I’ve never come up with the idea that I might prepare for some writing the day before. I’ve always thought of this endeavor as a seat-of-the-pants sort of thing. I hit the blank page running. Last night though I did. I thought about what I wrote yesterday and I devised a bit of a plan. Not an elaborate plan. Not even a well organized plan. Maybe not a plan.
I did think about what I’d written though. I tried to imagine what might happen next. Here’s what I got…
(it’s not neccessarily a continuation)
A mostly blue Richardson-Blount NF32 “Jack Rabbit” skimmed the morning plains as the sun pinked the horizon from nautical to civil twilight. At ten meters off the deck it was closer to wrecking with the earth than it measured nose to tail. The pilot, Captain Charles “Not Chuck” Bradford, skimmed landmarks and hazards outside the cockpit with his thoughts. He ticked them off like a chef might run down an endless ingredient list: tree, rise, fall, tree, pond, copse, rocks, creek… Bradford’s Drivers’ Ed teacher—a coach probably—mentioned the technique in a classroom lesson. Explicitly naming objects gave them substance in your thoughts in a way that merely perceiving them with your eyes did not. Bradford reacted to information, data, not to ideas.
Tree, tree, arrojo, dead body, rise…
“What!”
Expert training dulled Bradford’s instinctual reaction to wheel like a barracuda at flashing metal, but he did round the mains forward to bring the Jack Rabbit to a contemplative hover after 300 meters. Patrols had busted for weeks since the initial incursion. In the first two days they rounded up a handfull of refugees—less combatants—and nothing since.
Day 436