Rites of Passage

I raced to the edge of the tarmac, while the airplane tensed at the edge of the runway.
Then through the birch, the station manager's battered shack, with an oil engine in the centre.

Black oil and soot lined the floor and the roof. The engine hummed and faint sparks darted in her depths.

I shouted desperately for him to emerge, to grant me my passage.

But eons later when he did appear, he said… only the menial had powers to grant me the rights of passage. The fear of flying crept over me as these modern jets thundered down the causeway, the menace in their unseeing eyes shooting straight into me.
[26.10.2005]