royal flying corpse

Charles was so cold, he wasn’t sure whether he would ever be able to move his fingers again. That was, if he ever got out of this creaking death trap. He braved a look down at the ground, immediately regretting the decision as the tiny trees sped past beneath him.


Truth was that Charlie had never been very good with machines. The distant summer he had ridden from his city house, to his place in the country with Clapper, on that godforsaken boneshaker of a tandem bike was still a bad memory for him. Now here he was flying at some unnatural speed, in a place god had intended to be the sole reserve of birds and angels, in a contraption that seemed to be constructed of wood and paper.

His discomfort mattered little though, for Charles was in a race. He was on his way back to England with information for the government, information that could turn the tide of the war and perhaps have it all over by Christmas.

He felt a tap on his shoulder, the pilot’s hand was gesturing towards the earth. Charles followed the be-gloved finger and saw the glittering blue of the English channel.

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