airplane - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The airplane felt like home to Claude, he'd flown in them so often. He could curl up and sleep as easily as dozing on the couch. The engines roared and the winded buffeted, it was his sky-born cradle, rocked by the winds far above the ground. Even as the engines turned, his brain relaxed into dreaming mode, there were thousands of miles to go and all he had to do was let this technological bird fly him there.
From the night comes a sound as if thunder could be stretched. So I tilt my head upward, seeking lights that flash, the red and white in the deepest of blue skies. For a moment I am still, feeling the cool air, breathing in a steady rhythm. Then there they are, those crazy passing stars, flying high, ever onward.
The single engine Cessna Skyhawk SP circled twice before coming into land. It was the sort of plane that would barely have been noticed, flying in this part of the world. That was why it had been chosen. If anyone had been curious enough to check the registration number, printed under the wing...
Found in Alex Rider, Skeleton Key, authored by .
From the window of the plane the wing engine is semi illuminated, the lower half shining around the rim, the upper half several shades darker. As the plane dips the line between shadow and light moves, and all the while Olivia listens to the hum of the rotors.
It was an Avro Lancaster, a heavy world war II bomber. On the front of it's wings were four black propellers and at the back were twin elliptical fins and rudders.
It was a Boeing 747, a jumbo jet, she felt better knowing that. She'd never heard of one crashing. She looked forward to snoozing in the upper deck first class seats. She liked being that little bit further away from the ground, she knew it was silly but she imagined she'd survive a crash better up there.
The Piper was his pride and joy. When other men were polishing their Volvo's in the driveway, he was busy painting a Hawaiian fresco on the side his light aircraft. The way he described it, flying in this beautiful hand painted airplane was the closest he ever came to nirvana. He meditated amongst the clouds better than he could in any temple and came back to earth with the kind of serenity it was hard not to envy.
The airplane was like a tin can with wings. Maybe thirty years ago it was the cutting edge of micro-aeroplane engineering, but now it looked more like a battered steel coffin waiting to pitch you into a hungry ocean.
The airplane had the look of a billionaire's private jet. There were no rows of seats, only the most elegant leather couches and coffee tables with ornate cabriole legs. There were plush curtains at the windows and a plasma screen as large as a movie theatre.
No matter how salubrious the furnishings inside the airplane were, to Maggie it would never be more then a flying metal tube. She crossed her heart as she stepped over the threshold and smiled stiffly at the stewardess.
Out of the south the biplane came winging back toward the camp, a black speck against the dazzling white of the vast ice-fields that extended unbroken to the horizon on every side.
She watched as silver planes crossed evening skies, their white tails left to fade with the last of dusk.