A stroll around the deck lead me to the forward section of the airbus. We’d been on the Cumulo for three weeks and we were now into the last six days of sailing. It was nearly time. I allowed myself a few moments respite as I leant over the railings. A netting below made it thoroughly safe, well safer at least, but still allowed the passengers to enjoy the view of the clouds floating beneath. My oxygen mask felt restrictive, and although I could manage quite well without it for a good thirty minutes, it would make the other passengers suspicious. I longed to feel the rush of the wind on my face, but I had to settle for it tugging at the sections of accessible hair.
A cross-breeze caught the canopy ship and made a ripple in the fabric, one that sounded like whale-song echoing across the vessel. A muffled chorus of ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ could be heard from all directions. One voice stood out above all others. Mrs Deckerd-Smythe made herself known wherever she was. A millionairess after her husband’s passing, she made sure her money was on display at every opportunity. It was this wealth I intended on making her part with before the end of this journey. Her rooms had a certain level of security but the good lady was not one for hiding away in her cabin which gave ample time for me to scope out the challenge and to get by some well-meaning security staff. Now I just had to bide my time, too early in the journey and it would be found out, all those aboard would be confined to quarters and I’d not get out with my ill-gotten gains. I needed leave it as late as possible so Mrs Deckerd-Smythe would not notice until leaving the Cumulo. And there was the fact I still needed to get the last key that she kept on her person at all times.
It was as I was watching her, thinking on this last problem I needed to overcome that a new obstacle appeared though the clouds. Shouts went up around the deck, people started to run in different directions as another kind of roar sounded from above the canopy. Pirates. Fantastic. They were not going to rob me of this score. I felt at the small of my back for my blade, checking its presence. To the bridge then, it would seem I was going to have to work for my money on this job.
https://puttingmyfeetinthedirt.com/2021/01/01/january-2021-writing-prompts/ This story is in response to the January 2012 writing prompts from Putting My Feet in the Dirt. These prompts are designed for ten minutes of free writing, no holds barred and all errors accepted. The perfect thing to get you going if you’re lost that writing feeling.