1A/N: Hello good people of the world! It's me again, Wakao. This was written for my end of years and I got my highest score ever for this essay. Wanna know what all the hype's about? READ!
Flight
He threw his socks into the leather backpack carelessly, not caring if they matched or not. His room looked like it had been ransacked. Various articles of clothing lay strewn across the hard wood floor, all the drawers were turned out and the delicate Christmas globe that his father had given him had been smashed. What was left of it lay forlornly on the floor, and whenever he moved little bits of crushed and broken glass would reflect the candlelight back into his eyes. There were many things in his life that had been crushed and broken, and the concept of Christmas was but a far off one.
He sat down heavily on the bed, allowing his lungs a bit of time to expand fully, breathe deeply. Looking around him, he saw the ruins of what had looked to be a promising career in the air force, bringing to mind his father's words, "Come home for Christmas, son." Two opposing concepts, Christmas and the air force. One was love and good cheer, the other empty beds and plane crashes. He had lost two roommates since the war began, and now it was enough. He had had enough of dust gathering on sheets, of cold cans of tuna and stale bread. His bones were freezing, shoulders heavy with the weight of the world. Time for some warmth. Time for some love. Time to escape.
He got up, slung his backpack over his shoulders, and prepared to flee.
The door swung open.
He froze, and the person at the door froze, and neither said a word as they both took in the situation.
He spoke first. "Don't look at me like that."
His roommate, Devon, took a step closer to him, staring him down with accusing eyes. "Why not? You deserve it."
He sighed. He knew this was not going to be easy. "I want… out."
"Fight or flight, Sam? A hero or a coward? Your choice."
A flash of red in his eyes, and before he knew it, he had shoved Devon to the side and onto the floor. "I am not a coward!"
He raised his fist, ready to strike. Devon held his glare without flinching. He winced and looked away. No time for this. Silently, he gathered his things, held his head high, and walked through the door, slamming it shut behind him. The word 'coward' still rang in his ears.
Red alert. The enemy was approaching. Death dropped all around them, shaking the ground, leaving shrapnel everywhere.
"All pilots to their places!" The announcement had been sent.
He was already strapped in, the engine of his plane ready to go. But he had been planning to flee, not to… fight.
Coward.
His hands shook on the steering wheel. All around him, pilots were making their way across the runway to their planes, rapping on each other's windscreens and giving thumbs-up signs. They were ready to bring glory to their country, to die with honor.
Coward.
He glanced up at the backpack he had flung into the small compartment above his head. It smelt of home, of burnt wood and pine trees, of his mother's salty tears as she hugged him goodbye, of summers spent building a treehouse with his father. He wanted, so much, to see them again.
Coward.
Another jolt of death rocked the runway. A plane had gone up in flames, soon extinguished by the falling rain. Maybe he had known that pilot. Maybe that pilot had a family back home, waiting for him to come back for Christmas.
Coward.
Maybe he didn't have to be.
The runway man signaled him. It was his turn. He pressed down hard on the accelerator, pressed all the right buttons, pulled his helmet down tight. Visibility was poor, but in his mind he could see his parents clearly, their faces proud. His father, reaching out to him, touching his arm. "Do what you have to do, son, but come home for Christmas."
Flight. His adrenaline rushed as he dodged bullets and enemy planes. He twisted and glided for what seemed like a long while, managing to hit a good number of enemy planes along the way. He thought he saw Devon in the plane fighting next to him, but it was hard to tell through the rain-specked window.
An earthquake hit him as his plane shuddered in the air. Flames licked greedily at his right wing, gobbling up the use of one of his engines. He was lopsided, turning, losing control. He was headed straight for an enemy plane. Gripping the steering wheel tightly, his jaw clenched. 'I'm gonna take you down with me,' he thought. It veered to the left, out of sight. He cursed.
The ground was rushing up to meet him. Empty beds and crashed planes would now be a reality for someone else. He could feel his father's hand on his arm, comforting him.
"Merry Christmas, dad," he whispered as he shut his eyes tight. He hoped his dad could hear him.
He hoped Devon saw him.
Hero.
fin.
Marks: 29/30
Comments: Extremely well written, not only in terms of use of language, but your ability to engage the reader.
Good use of tension and vocabulary. Well done!
A/N: I used an actual linebreak in the essay. It felt quite good. Anyway, REVIEW, 'cos I accept anything.