It stalls mid-flight and plummets down like a shot bird. I watch its descent with disappointment. I rush to the crash site to salvage the aircraft. This one is another failure. I unfold the paper, then re-fold it in a different arrangement. The airplane takes off again, and this time it soars gracefully. Maybe a ptoerodactyl? I think I like a C-47 better.
Well, I'm in it now. I glance around nervously at my comrades in arm, preparing for a drop.
"You'll be alright, laddie. No use worrying now, eh?" A voice from behind reassures me. Green light. People get sucked out of the door and it's my turn now. Peering out of the portside latch, I see thousands of men hanging on their parachutes. Suddenly, they transform into dandelion seeds on a summer day.
The pungent fragrance of crushed grass and flower tickle my nose. When I open my eyes again, I find myself leaning against a beech tree instead of the metal wall of an airplane. The gale relents briefly, and the dandelion seeds, which still bear traces of men with parachutes, ensconce themselves beneath some shrubs. I gather some fifteen globes of seeds and blow them all at once. They disintegrate and melt into a white apparition dancing with the wind, somersaulting over the crest of a hill and finally, drowning in a swimming pool. My eyes follow its every movement and my thoughts run after it, until it stumbles; it trips over a 'Don't do that.'
"What?"
"Don't do that. I like them on the field," she says.
"All right. I'll leave them alone, then." A sullen reply.
"Thank you." Why was this girl named after a French province? Beats me. The sun is a touch too bright today. I squint, the world goes a little yellw, a little purple. A little purple.