Fear of Flying
A vulture? Great!
Shoo bird! I may be hanging off the side of a cliff but that does not make me dinner.
Is it wrong to hope to God that nobody saw the undignified way I slipped on my arse and gravel-surfed off the edge? If it wasn’t for these roots I grabbed, I’d be impaled on all those pointy-looking rocks down there. Instead I’m splayed out like some awful crucifixion scene, each hand holding onto a prehistoric looking tendril while my feet balance on the same tiny rock.
I’m stuck here but at least I’m not falling.
Oh. It’s a helicopter.
“Hey asshole! Need a lift?”
“No thanks! I’m fine!”
“That’s an interesting response considering your predicament.”
“Seriously Jenny, why don’t you go back up your winchie-thing and fly away.”
“Really? Coz from here, it looks like you’re going to die painfully and alone. Geez Pete. Man up! All I said was I lo…”
“STOP! For pity’s sake I’m losing my footing!”
“Just because you’ve found a comfortable little perch for yourself doesn’t mean I want to hang around on the side of cliff for the rest of my life, going nowhere.”
“You’d seriously leave me?”
“Your choice! Stay in this spot alone waiting for the inevitable pain – or you could come with me on the ride of your life.”
“Helicopters scare me.”
“I’ll wrap my legs and arms around you and keep you safe.”
“What if I fall?”
“You already have.”
Then I’m truly fucked.