“It’s a plot. Obviously.” I try to sound confident in my pronouncements. The people expect it. I expect it of myself.
“Well, it’s novel, that’s for sure,” Wickham chimes in, “but it may not be a plot so much as it is a large, unaligned plot of earth, floating in the stratosphere, failing to file a flight plan and seeking to settle down with a thump on Washington DC.”
“Whatever it is,” I tiptoe back, not so much in rebuttal but rather to have a stick in the game, as well as seeking some measure of compromise and the commonplace, “its quite attractive.’
My pusillanimous understatement belies the magnificence of the apparition.
“Hang on, this is just coming in,” Wickham announces, twisting his neck to the east to catch the best reception. My receiver has been on the blink of late. This has left me at a distinct disadvantage.
“Well, I’ll be hanged,” he declares. “That son of a gun.”
And shortly, we all know. A Presidential Ship worthy of Dali. Certainly, it manifests a subtlety not normally attributed to the man.
“He IS a planner,” Wickham continues. The Ship, or Plane, would have taken years to design and to build.
“I am now at sea as to his views on Global Warming,” Chipperfield finally contributes.
As for me, this airborne vision encompasses a promise of Mother Nature protected, a hint of wall circumscribing the flying fortress of forest, and a hope, still faint I grant you, that such an imaginative man can be more than the sum of his unpleasant parts.
My contribution his week to Jane Dougherty’s Microfiction challenge #22: Utopia Ark.