Bell hated planes. Steel coffins they laid you shoulder to shoulder in. A single instance of neglect or malice by engineer or pilot would send the thing spiraling from the sky. Survival in those instances were borne of luck, not skill.
She did not trust the latter or whatever esoteric science kept the winged metal aloft. For now though, half-perched, half-folded into a black padded chair near the gate window, she could relax.
Armed surveillance and security rituals kept the stupidly violent at bay, and deterred the more discerning. The lines and checkpoints provided travelers a placebo peace rarely provided outside the glass walls of the airport.They didn’t catch everyone. For the skilled and determined, there were always holes. Like knew like, and Bell passed the time picking out the fluid stroll of marshals from their benign flock.
Her game went unnoticed. There was nothing to distinguish the perched girl with headphones from the other lone young women keeping to themselves.The preoccupied herd shuffled like a trickling tide, their shepherds with them. She drew up the hood of her dark jacket, content to watch and enjoy her freedom before hours confined too closely amidst the sheep.
Airports held hundreds of escapes and thousands of changing faces. At the moment Bell was pleased just being one of them.
Challenged to write a sense of freedom, this is what came about. See the original here .