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By Kellyanne Lynch 1997 Disclaimer: Wait, do I really even need one? It's only LOOSELY based off Elton John's "Rocket Man" Summary: a short story inspired by Elton John's "Rocket Man" Note: "Rocket Man" came on the radio a few days ago, reminding me of this story that I wrote my senior year of high school. I was thinking about the song when I wrote it. Without my telling him this, my friend Tim told me that it sounded like "Rocket Man". So I figure that it's considered fanfic. My teacher gave me an A- and wrote "interesting paper" on the top in his barely legible scrawl. He actually wrote that the second paragraph "resembles the TV ad" that was airing at the time too. So this is fanfic in more ways than one, I guess. Rating: G * Please email dearjoan@mikeypower.com with questions, comments, theories, complaints, or words of wisdom. -------------------------------------------------------- The airplane glided through British skies, passing by the treasures below in pursuit of a greater adventure. Rolling my drink cart down the narrow corridor between the rows of seats, I glanced around at the people who had chosen to take the 2 AM flight. I recognized Mr. Starr. He was seated by the window in row ten where he always sat. "A drink, Mr. Starr?" I asked the business man, but he had not heard me. His eyes were glued to his laptop computer as he spoke on the airline telephone, assuring his wife that he would be home next week. Staring at him, I saw his apathy for what he had said to her, far too concerned with typing away at his computer. I passed by him, moving on to a man I did not remember from previous flights. Reading his Bible, he had not seen my cart stop at his seat. "A drink, sir?" "Huh?" the man looked up from his Bible. "Oh! Thank you, miss, but I'm all set for now!" Pushing my cart forward, I reached Miss. Philp, a writer and frequent flyer. I asked her if she wanted a drink, but she didn't hear me, just stared out the window, at the clouds, seeking inspiration from wherever she was as writers have done for centuries. Dr. Hartfield, my psychiatrist, happened to be on this flight as well. She also refused a drink. When I attempted to start a conversation, she urged me to wait until our next session. Slightly perturbed, I moved down the corridor. "No, no, no!" Mr. Lawson, a liberal politician, yelled into the airline telephone. "I have to go to New Hampshire next! The primaries are coming up, and I don't want to lose my votes there!" "Mr. Lason, a drink?" "I'm busy now!" he snapped at me before returning to his call. "I'll go to Texas AFTER!" Will Sykes, a key player for the Celtics, was asleep when I passed him, probably exhausted from his horrendous schedule. From making Nike advertisements to photo shoots, the only other thing that Will Sykes had time for was actually playing basketball. I passed by him, pushing my cart down the corridor to the last person on the plane, a professional looking woman who was plugging away at the keyboard of her laptop computer. She refused a drink as well, causing me to feel that my work today had been completely useless. Returning the cart to the back, I sighed. I took an empty seat across from Mr. Starr and closed my eyes. It was going to be a long, boring flight. |