Flying Car Island
Flying cars require a new way of viewing the world
Sequester Via Vimana 3000
Fuel leaked onto his hand. He felt the cool evaporation of ethanol quiver quickly along his arm hair. He trembled pouring the reserve tank and tiny "ping ping pings" emanated from the intake. The old man raked his other hand through his long grey hair. He watched as the sun danced along the last vista of trees on the horizon.
He knew it would be dark soon, he would need to find camp.
With the last few drops of ethanol in the tank, the old man reached into the driver's side of his blood red vehicle. With a quick twist of a chrome key the engine hummed to life. Inside, the old man turned on the control lights and the inside lit up like a Main Street Theatre. The Vimana spoke to him, "Bodaway, may I have your destination?"
The sultry voice was that of Susan Sarandon selected by Bodaway himself. "I need a place to camp, is there a secluded place nearby, where I won't get shot."
Her reply came back, "Searching...camp...secluded...negating firearms..."
"There is a clearing in a woods 2.4 miles from here, should I plot a course and engage jets?" continued the voice.
Bodaway scratched his beard, "Engage jets, quiet mode."
The technological wonder whirred anthropomorphically as though it too were excited by a vertical climb.
With that, where there were normally four rubber tires on an automobile, Bodaway's Vimana had four jet engines all powered by ethanol. The engines roared to life. They vibrated with an uncanny resonance like hummingbirds wings. The harmonics of all four engines aligned always sounded like the root beer voice of singer Sam Cooke to the old man.
Bodaway pulled the door closed and flipped the over-ride toggle on the steering wheel. "Susan, maintain altitude 100 feet, unless you see big trees, than higher."
"Done." Rang the voice of the Vimana.
The sounds of the air being pushed through the turbines was buffered by moving spoilers. The Vimana rose into the air, the stars racing towards Bodaway's face, subterfuge for the short distance ascended. The technological wonder whirred anthropomorphically as though it too were excited by a vertical climb. Bodaway recalled his concierge from a week ago, "Here sir, are the keys to your Vimana 3000. Take care not to get in anyone's trail!"
That was that. After a week of sailing through the air like a flying squirrel, Bodaway was not content to return this machine. He was having a philosophical meltdown. He was never supposed to get invited to this island. He was here as a favor from an old friend, and yet, to have this vehicle on the mainland! Minus dodging a few antique wires, he would be a sensation! This secret should be told!
Bodaway guided his Vimana 3000 to the clearing posited by the angelic Susan Sarandon voice. He raced past woods, and a few dilapitaed farm outbuildings. The Vimana raced up and down honing in on the shifts in geography and racing along every curve and hill. The machine glided along effortlessly. When a large Douglas Fur hidden in the black of the shadow of the sunset came into view, Bodaway laughed as the intelligent navigator bounced his suspended travail like a floating marshmellow in hot chocolate. The sensation of being shot up and then down again all with a smooth, winding grace was intoxicating.
The vehicle touched down on the grass with shivering, pulsing breathes of air. The ship had landed. The lights went out.
Vimana 3000 Flying Cars Are Coming
Bodaway laughed as a shooting star exploded off in the distance.
The old man pulled out his sleeping bag and began walking around his soon to be camp, gathering dead wood for a fire. He pulled out the last of the bison jerky he had made two nights before, and began the long arduous task of chewing the fibers down to a saliva soup for one. He reached back into the Vimana, and found the remainder of his Irish Whiskey. He poured himself a cup, and lit his bonfire.
The flames reflected off of the Vimana 3000. The simplicity of it's design, the organic look of its curves, made it compliment the wiry arms of the oak tree behind it. Bodaway laughed as a shooting star exploded off in the distance.
The old man curled up inside his blankets and watched as the last of the embers of his fire danced around. Black then white then orange then red then black again. Dancing and dancing, popping and hissing, singing softly, whispering really, secrets of the universe. Bodaway fell asleep there, with the last of the bonfire smoke irritating his nose hairs. He burped and rolled over. As he drifted off to sleep, a dream of his arrival came into his consciouness.
"To get to the island, one had to know people, and one needed an ability to row, silently as a waterbug." Bodaway's friend Nico smiled coyly, as he walked him to the back of his shed. He pointed to a black canoe, and then handed him a double-ended black-dyed oar. "I made this for you, it's the only way to get there."
Bodaway reached out and grabbed the oar from his friend. "Thank you Nico, I'll do it."
With that Bodaway was gone. In a rush of memory and dream he found himself at the crest of a huge wave, looking down ready to crash into pure, dark void. The waves tossed the canoe until lightening and thunder felt like reprieve. The canoe survived that wave, and the next, and a maybe a thousand more. Then the sea was done shaking the old man, and the island was near. He rowed now, silently, he rowed more, even quieter. Now he was the water bug. Now he would see what Nico raved about, the flying machine, this Vimana 3000!
- Flyin Car Island: Page 2
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