Marlowe and I are sitting in a very nice aeroplane called Cathay Pacific. I have a window seat and I can see that this plane is flying high in the sky. Its wings are not made of feathers but the same kind of shiny hard stuff as a car or a fridge or a microwave.
In between us is a kind lady named Susan Tong. She told me she is called a ‘flight nurse’. This means she is here to help my sore chest on the flight. I noticed she is very good at helping me with my oxygen mask. She has round glasses and her eyes look like little planets from outer space. She is quick and clever at reading the signs of my body and puts an extra blanket on my lap to keep me warm.
There are four other people travelling with us who are a bit sick like me, and a man with small eyes and a toothpick in his mouth, who Marlowe knows. He gives me a strange feeling, like ice running down the back of my neck. I don’t talk to him, but I would like to ask the other people what their names are.
Suddenly, we all wobble in our seats and the plane shakes. I feel a shiver in my belly and chest.
‘Are you all right, Harper?’ Susan asks.
‘Harper?’ Marlowe looks at me. The blacks of her eyes are small and serious. This means that she is feeling panic. ‘It’s only turbulence, there’s no need to worry,’ she says, holding the sides of her seat tightly.
‘I am fine,’ I say. ‘You should relax.’ But I know that she can’t relax, because I see her moving a lot in her seat. I think it would be nice if Susan took care of her too. So I ask her to please give Marlowe my blanket – not for warmth, but for comfort and love. Susan smiles and unwraps a new blanket for my sister, who takes it and puts it around her shoulders.
The plane calms down again and becomes still. I look at the night clouds under the moon outside my window. They are in the shape of a woman with round hips and long hair. I feel an itch in my fingertips. I get out my autobiographical storybook and let the ink from my pen fall onto the page.
There was a beutiful lady who onse upon a time had a sore chest and was sick. She didn’t know it yet but she had majic powers.
I stop and put my pen down for a minute. The word ‘magic’ is not quite right. I think in my brain about other words I can use. I see a tiger in the snow, like in the National Geographic programs that Marlowe watches. It jumps into the air and catches a bird from the sky. The tiger runs fast. In my mind, I can see its strong muscles move under its fur.
There was a beutiful lady who onse upon a time had a sore chest and was sick. She didn’t know it yet but she had majic powers corage.
Yes! That’s it! Now I can feel the energy of my blood all over my body, warm and smooth, filling all my corners with the heat and colour. I have an electric idea. I look back through all the pages of my autobiographical storybook and I write the beginning of the beautiful woman’s journey.
Even though the yung woman was sick in her chest, she found her corage and desided to go on a jorney. Her body filled up with power like a leeping white tiger.
My hand hurts. My head hurts. I put down my pen, close my book and stop my Shakespeare writing for now.