Question: Does the lack of conversation add to our hero's sense of isolation or does it make the story more boring? On a side note and Good News! that doesn't mean I don't need to add some conversation to what I already have between him and Ashley and him and the Good Reverend. Now welcome to Chapter Seven of Sky Pilot!

Chapter Seven

When I get to the Military Academy Seminary Program, discipline began as soon as we got off the boat with physical training in the rain. They can’t make it rain, it just seems that way. Being in a rain forest helps though.

They also have this special way to start training. It’s called the Personal Physical Barrier Test. They say the goal is to find the limits of a plebe’s physical endurance. Senior Students call it “Pant, Puke, and Pass Out.” New students start running a cross country course over steep hills, through rocky valleys, and into deep bogs until we, obviously, pant, puke, and finally pass out.

According to legend someone drowns about every five years because they pass out in a bog. They aren’t found for hours and by then it’s too late. It’s possible; and I can see how that’s the perfect legend told by upperclassmen to plebes. It’s also the reason I puked in the bog and passed out on the rocks. I didn’t drown, but it hurt like hell.

As for patching me up, I was doused with some ancient elixir and dumped in my cell with a Hebrew bible, a Greek bible and a couple of dictionaries. What year is this and I’m sitting in a rain forest reading paper? Maybe the first miracle of Jesus was wine at the wedding in Cana, but getting paper not to dissolve in a rain forest must be the latest. Why we aren’t using tablets must be another version of discipline. Scripture on paper in ancient texts, this is going to be a fun summer.

The worst part, the absolute worst part of all is the music. It’s nothing but flutes and gongs and computer tones going on and on for hours with brief choral interludes. I remember some churches doing this “music” at home, but it never was for me. It makes me want to gouge my ear drums out of my head. I can just barely concentrate. I’ve taken to making ear plugs made out of shirt tails. I’m guessing it’s not approved by the Commander, but I’ll take my chances. After what has happened to me I’m more than willing go to the brig over bad music. It would be my luck that they would pipe that infernal sound into my prison cell at triple volume though.

So it was ironic that I ended up being detailed to the library archives. I was one of the plebes cataloging music. I ended up with 20^th Century music. Classical, I never appreciated classical music. Some people loved it; I thought it was only so much screaming. Why couldn’t I get something better? Not more modern mind you, I can’t stand that garbage; but classical music is not my idea of a good time either. At least these tunes range about three minutes instead of hours on end. That’s a bonus.

My first day in the archives they put me in front of a listening unit with a pair of headphones and a database. So I start listening. How in the cosmos do I decide where to start? I’m not the first plebe to dig into this database. There are gaps all over 20^th Century music. There are about a dozen genres like Rock, Jazz, Blues, Reggae, Country/Western, and Soul. Then there are subgenres like Ska, Afropunk, Bubble Gum, Roots, and whatever Country Rock is along with hundreds of others. I think some people take this job a little too seriously.

I decided to find the most obscure name I could and decided to go with Lenny Kravitz, and then I saw his picture; Black, pierced, tattooed, hair styles I had to look up known as dreadlocks or Afro. Reading his biography I found out his mother was a Caribbean Christian and his Father was a New York Jew. The credits on the recordings also showed he played most of the instruments himself. He played rock, rhythm and blues, soul, even cover songs. With a dozen or so recordings this would be a good month worth of cataloging. I prayed to God his music was as interesting as his bio.

So that was my day, pant, puke, pass out, listening, studying, and sleeping. The best part was if I was completely exhausted at the end of the day I would be less upset about how I got here.

Sky Pilot, Chapter Six

Friends, sorry for the delay! It has been all my fault.

As for the suggestions I have asked for, I've gotten two and they have been very insightful. One has been to be more descriptive, particularly sensory, particularly olfactory. This suggestion has opened up a whole new world to me to look at the story because I know how smells have brought memories back to me. Good stuff.

The other suggestion was that the narrative is fine, but there needs to be more conversation. So far the only speaking has been A&W reaming out Our Hero in Chapter Five and Our Hero ordering drinks in Chapter One. This one is going to be a little harder. I tend to work in my head so I need to find voice for these characters as well as narrative. But let's face it, great suggestion, eh?

So a million thanks to my readers and to those who share, a million more thanks to each of the people who read from their share. I love you all and please keep reading and commenting and helping me make this better.

And now on with the show...

Chapter Six

The speedy trial came more quickly than I imagined. The court even speeded up the process, something about the witnesses leaving after graduation. Everybody wanted to get rid of me as quickly as they could. The evidence that I might have been drugged was disallowed, but that was the only way I could have made it back to her place without knowing it. Or at least I guess that’s what happened. My lawyer proved that I couldn’t have committed a sexual assault without transferring hair to her, and since none of my hair was on her I couldn’t have done what they accused me of doing. Of course seeking the evidence was a humiliating experience. As for the DNA transfer, I don’t know how that was done. I can imagine a couple of ways. I don’t want to imagine any of them, but I can.

In the end, the sexual assault charge against me was dropped but I was found guilty of some lesser assault charges. How I ended up in the hospital and with assault charges is beyond my imagination, but that’s what happened. The judge decided to try an interesting deferred sentence. She decided to conscript me to a Military Academy Seminary Program where I would have no contact with women and have significant contact with “study, prayer, and discipline.” There was a way the judge said “discipline” that made me believe I was on the express train to hell.

Welcome to the land of no choice. I had a criminal record. I had judgment against me. I would get three years in seminary and five in the service, more if my term ended and I couldn’t get home or was “involuntarily reenlisted.” All for an assault I didn’t commit.

What happened? These were all people from church these people sat near me, beside me. We played basketball together. We played touch football, they had all heard about how I played tackle. They knew I was tough and could play in pain, that’s probably why they used four guys and drugs to beat me to a pulp.

We took care of kids, the kids; I’ll probably never get to look at another kid with this hanging over me. These were my friends, but one of them did look at me differently. There was a gleam in his eyes that was different from any other look I had ever seen before.

Friends. Friends who are on fire for the Lord. Burning. Burning. That’s it, burning. One of those four guys was sitting a couple of pews behind me the first time I went to University Reformed Church. I remembered a burning sensation on the back of my neck that day. Maybe that was the reason I felt someone staring a hole in the back of my head. Is that what this is? Jealousy? On the day of my sentencing he was with Ashley. I’m conscripted and he’s “picking up the pieces.” A&W DeMoss looks glad there’s someone to care for his baby girl.

I wish I could take the prison cell rather than seminary. Instead after sentencing I’m moved to what they call a “monk’s cell” to begin my study. This doesn’t even come off of my seminary or service time. It’s pre-prison. It’s a time of preparation for seminary. They give me a syllabus and a schedule. Study, prayer, and discipline are getting off to an early start. Everybody just thinks it’s better to keep me away, get me off the streets. This way I’m not a constant reminder to anybody. I’m not even a member of anybody anymore.

As they take me away, my lawyer gives me her final bill. Really, a final bill for this? Eight years for being railroaded? My cash is gone. It’s either been used to settle my parent’s bills, pay for their funerals, pay for my education or my defense. I have one thing left.

I give my lawyer the engagement ring. It’s not even Ashley’s engagement ring any more, it’s just the engagement ring. “Keep the change” and I’m led off.