[You’ve met Silverback Ron before, but not as a famous author. Now he has turned his talents away from making wacky bicycles and automatons to, with a heavy assist from AI, writing a novel. Silverback Digest caught up with Ron on a 105 degree spring day in Tucson to learn more about how his novel, “Clean Air“, came to be. SB SM]
What is your past experience as a writer?
I have very little experience in writing. I helped out with some church plays and I’ve written a couple skits for my own amusement but that is the extent of my writing.
What were the earliest questions/parameters that you fed into AI?
I told AI I wanted to base a story around the song “Taxi” written by Harry Chapin. I gave AI a brief synopsis of the song and said I wanted to explore the idea of the character of Harry getting a call from Sue telling him her husband has been murdered and she’s being framed for it. She asks for Harry’s help and he obliges. From that information I asked AI to come up with a storyline, which it did. From there it was a lot of refining of the story and the characters.
What were some ways that AI surpassed your expectations?
Its speed is always impressive. I’m a two finger typist and that was a big part of wanting AI involved because it could whip out the words in a flash. I could keep modifying the text by additional prompts until it was what I liked and then cut and paste it into the part of the book it was designed for. Any question I had about things I was pretty clueless about such as the CID branch of the Army, AI explained. It is a great resource for researching. I was also impressed with its creative skills, describing the penthouse apartment, the Thorne estate, the grass strip airfield, etc. were handled well I thought. I was also impressed by how it explained the two influencers in the antagonist, Marcus Vane. His father and his love of poker and Hugo Visser and his love of chess and how both games related to living your life.
Conversely, what were things that you expected of AI that it couldn’t produce?
Probably the biggest frustration was that AI couldn’t completely get inside my head and see what I was seeing. I eventually came up with a list of characters and back stories for each one. I had ideas for scenes that I wanted to incorporate into the main novel in order for readers to get a sense of their history. I wasn’t sure how to go about bringing in all those elements and AI never could either. I can’t blame the AI for not being able to do it. AI needs guidance and I wasn’t providing the correct direction.
To what extent did you control the mood and tone of the writing? To what extent were you able to redirect the outcome?
I was using Google’s Gemini from the start. It would use phrases like: “The Void”, “Dark Pool”, “Shadow Tax” throughout the novel without any explanation of what it was talking about. It was as if it thought the reader had the same understanding that it had. I had to have it drop those phrases from the text. It also had a tendency to repeat descriptions, one that stood out was the description of Marcus Vane’s hair. I wanted it to be thick and longish with the idea of it being a lion’s mane. AI latched onto that and every time it mentioned hid hair it was his “leonine” hair. I had to edit that out quite a bit. Keeping the novel going the way I wanted wasn’t hard. If AI wrote something I didn’t care for I would have it rewrite it with whatever suggestions I had. It was always complimentary, agreed with me and never got upset. You can’t hurt its feelings. Once I had the flow of the novel set in my mind, it was just a matter of giving it direction chapter by chapter. It just took a while to get there.
Did the characters turn out as you intended?
Yes. The main characters have a chance to get fully fleshed out in the story I think. The supporting characters you only catch a glimpse of and I think it is enough.
What advice would you have for other novice users of AI?
I used a chatbot. In my case I used Google Gemini and Microsoft Copilot. Since then I found out that there are specific AI for writing books such as Sudowrite, Textbuilder, Novel Crafter and more. If you want to get serious about writing I would explore some of those tools. There are probably some fees involved but it might be worth it. I have no desire to pursue writing. This was just an experiment. I enjoyed the experience but that’s all. I do think about trying one of these tools for the book that I wrote to see if it would be bigger and better but for now I’m satisfied. Another aspect of writing I didn’t know about was the formatting needed. I was using Google Docs and I wasn’t aware of things like heading style and page breaks, etc. Do a little study about formatting before you start putting things down on “paper.”
Can People buy “Clean Air” in Bookstores?
No, I don’t have it anywhere public yet. I started to look at printing it but it was coming up around $15 or more for a small number like 24 copies. So I went with an epub format that can be read by different viewers. You probably need to download an app for your PC like Calibre to view it. I used a site called Draft 2 Digital to get it into the epub format. They would continue the process and put it out there on the net and get royalties. I didn’t pursue that route.
Right now I have it as an epub file and a Word.doc file for family and friends.
Sample Chapters from Clean Air by SB Ron
Chapter 1
September 25, 2020
10:17 PM
The night of Friday, September 25, 2020, was swallowed by a restless autumn storm that battered Indianapolis. Outside the Maxwell Hotel—the “Grand Old Lady” of the city—thunder rumbled with a low, bone-deep frequency, rattling the heavy, hand-carved Beaux-Arts window frames. Since its opening in 1913, the Maxwell had been the undisputed cathedral of local power; its limestone walls and Carrara marble floors had witnessed a century of industrial dynasties rising and falling. Tonight, the Grand Meridian Ballroom was a sea of black ties and silk gowns, the air thick with the expensive scent of Casablanca lilies and the quiet, metallic hum of a hundred high-stakes business deals.
The Maxwell wasn’t just hosting any event; however, it was the annual Thorne Global Logistics (TGL) celebration of another successful and profitable year. TGL was the Indianapolis born business created by Silas James Thorne in 1946 who, after returning from the war, purchased 3 army surplus trucks and began Thorne Heavy Haulage. In the five decades since, it had grown to be a multi-billion dollar shipping titan in the high-altitude world of international commerce. Tonight TGL wined and dined Indianapolis’ political and social elite, current business partners and clients as well as prospective clients.
The atmosphere was underscored by a jazz quartet positioned on a velvet-draped riser in the corner. They played a sophisticated, mid-tempo rendition of Autumn in New York, the double bass providing a heartbeat to the room that felt more like a calculation than a melody. Under the gold-leaf ceilings and massive crystal chandeliers attendees moved in tight, choreographed circles, sipping twenty-year-old scotch from heavy lead crystal.
Susan Thorne, wife of TGL’s CEO Silas P Thorne, stood beneath a massive crystal chandelier, the light refracting off her midnight-blue silk gown. The fabric shimmered with every movement, echoing the cold, dark surface of a deep ocean. The dress was a masterpiece of restraint, draped perfectly to catch the light like deep water, its cool hue contrasting with the warmth of the room. Her hair was swept into a sharp, architectural bun that accentuated the elegant, observant line of her neck. She was deep in conversation with Councilman David Sterling and Arthur Pendergast, a senior TGL board member whose family had done business with the Thornes since the 1940s. Sue was in full “Meisner” mode from her years of training in NYC in theaters, she projected the effortless grace of a devoted wife while her mind read the subtle shifts in the Councilman’s posture and the board member’s forced smile.
The social orbit of the group shifted the moment Marcus Vane, TGL’s COO, stepped into the light.
Vane did not simply walk; he dominated. He looked less like a corporate executive and more like a predator surveying a well-manicured enclosure. He wore a charcoal-gray pinstripe suit, bespoke and perfectly fitted to a frame hardened by a decade of military discipline. But it was his hair that defined him—a thick, leonine mane, ash-brown and silvering at the temples, brushed back in a sweeping, authoritative wave. He carried it with the arrogance of a man who knew he was the Lion King of this particular jungle, and everyone else was merely part of the scenery.
“Councilman, Arthur,” Vane said, his voice a low, resonant baritone that vibrated in the chest. “Forgive the interruption, but the gears of logistics are turning.”
Without waiting for an opening, he placed a firm hand on Susan’s elbow. The gesture was polished enough to appear polite to the Councilman, but to Susan, it was a cold, unmistakable claim of ownership. He steered her away from the mahogany pillars and toward the bank of elevators at the edge of the ballroom, his stride efficient and rhythmic.
“Marcus, I was in the middle of a zoning discussion with Sterling,” Susan said, her voice dropping to a sharp, controlled whisper.
“The discussion is over,” Vane replied. He didn’t look at her; he looked through the situation, his eyes fixed on the illuminated floor numbers above the elevator bank. “A client has invited Silas and me up to their suite for a private session. We’re finalizing the West Coast contracts tonight.”
“And Silas? He’s just going to leave his own gala?”
“Silas is where he needs to be. And you, Susan, have completed your portion of tonight’s activities superbly, as always. There’s absolutely no need for you to stay and be bored any longer by meaningless conversation.” The elevator doors slid open with a soft, mechanical chime. Vane didn’t ask her to leave; he moved her toward the car as if she were a piece of cargo being redirected. “I have ordered a taxi. It is waiting for you at the curb. Go home. Silas will be late.”
He spoke with a finality that left her with no say in the matter, dismissing her presence as a logistical detail he had successfully resolved. Susan stepped into the mahogany-paneled elevator and spun on her heels. As the doors began to glide shut, she caught one last glimpse of Vane. He stood on the plush carpet, his leonine hair catching the ballroom light, a faint, predatory smile touching his lips as he watched the doors close between them. She closed her eyes, suppressing a scream that was fighting to be released.
Chapter 2
October 18, 2012
The transition from the stage to the street was always a jagged one for Susan Sheffield. Inside the theater, she had spent the last three hours as Honey—the fragile, “slim-hipped” wife in a brutal revival of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?. She had spent the evening fueled by stage brandy and simulated hysteria, and as she pushed open the heavy steel stage door of the Booth Theatre, the humid NYC night air felt like a physical weight against her skin.
It was October 2012. The city smelled of hot asphalt, rain-slicked garbage, and the faint, lingering scent of expensive cigars from the Shubert Alley nearby. Susan adjusted her trench coat, her eyes still heavy with the remnants of stage makeup, her mind trying to shake off the echoes of George and Martha’s vocal warfare.
“Ms. Sheffield?”
The voice was a rich, dark baritone that seemed to vibrate in the narrow alleyway. Susan stopped, her hand tightening on her bag. Standing near the brick wall, illuminated by the amber glow of a security light, was a man who looked like he had been carved out of the city’s skyline.
Marcus Vane was thirty-seven then, but he carried the gravity of a man twice his age. He wasn’t in a suit tonight; he wore a dark navy pea coat over a black turtleneck, a look that leaned more toward “mercenary on leave” than “corporate executive.” His hair was his most striking feature—a thick, ash-brown mane, long enough to graze his collar and brushed back in a sweeping wave that caught the overhead light. He didn’t look like the other fans who lingered by the stage door; he looked like he owned the building.
“I’m sorry, I was just heading out,” Susan said, her voice still a bit raw from the performance.
“I won’t keep you long,” Vane said, stepping forward with a grace that was both effortless and predatory. “I just wanted to tell you that your performance tonight was… transformative. Playing Honey is often a thankless task—she’s usually just the punchline. But you gave her a soul. You made her the most terrifying person on that stage because she was the only one who didn’t know she was in a war.”
Susan blinked, the actress recognizing the “emotional truth” in his observation. It wasn’t the usual stage-door flattery. He had actually been watching.
“Thank you,” she said, her guard dropping a fraction of an inch. “That’s… very kind of you to say.”
“I’m Marcus Vane,” he said, extending a hand. His grip was firm, calloused, and brief. “And I’m not just a fan. I’m here as a bit of a scout. Or perhaps a matchmaker, of sorts.”
He stepped to the side, gesturing toward the shadows further down the alley where a younger man stood in front of a black town car.
“I’m here with an associate,” Vane continued, his voice dropping an octave. “He’s been to see the show three times this week. He’s a man of considerable means but very little courage when it comes to meeting people he admires. He’s the reason I’m standing here playing the part of the polite interloper.”
The man in the shadows stepped forward. He was thirty-three, dressed in an overcoat that looked too heavy for the May evening, as if he were trying to hide behind the fabric. He had a soft, handsome face and eyes that held a certain haunted, artistic light—the kind of look that immediately triggered Susan’s protective instincts.
“Susan,” Vane said, his voice smooth and authoritative, “I’d like to introduce you to Silas Thorne. Silas, this is the woman who has been keeping you awake at night.”
Silas P. Thorne took a step closer, his eyes fixed on Susan with a mixture of awe and genuine shyness. She knew the name Thorne. Anyone who grew up in Indianapolis knew their story. He didn’t look like a billionaire heir; he looked like the crushed artist he was, a man living in the shadow of a giant, desperately searching for something real.
“You were… incredible,” Silas whispered, his voice hesitant. “Especially in the third act. When you were dancing alone… I’ve never seen anyone look so alone in a room full of people.”
At that moment, Susan didn’t see the heir apparent of Thorne Global Logistics. She didn’t see the predator in Marcus Vane, standing behind Silas like a shadow puppeteer. She only saw a decent, likable man who had truly seen her work.
“I’m Silas,” he said, extending a hand that trembled just slightly. “And I’d very much like to buy you a drink. If you aren’t too tired of being around people.”
Susan looked from the vulnerable Silas to the commanding Vane, who was watching the interaction with that same faint, predatory smile she would see again eight years later in an elevator at the Maxwell.
“A drink sounds like exactly what I need,” Susan said, a small, genuine smile touching her lips. “Lead the way.”
As they walked toward the car, Vane stayed half a step behind them, like a lion watching his pride, knowing that he had just successfully cast the final piece in his long, dark game.
The black town car glided through the rain-slicked canyons of Midtown Manhattan like a shark through deep water. Inside, the scent of expensive leather and Vane’s subtle, spicy cologne filled the cabin. Silas P. sat stiffly in the corner, his hands clasped tightly over his knees, while Sue leaned back, the adrenaline of the performance finally beginning to ebb.
“Silas was quite taken with the scene in the second act,” Vane said, breaking the silence with a smooth, practiced ease. “The way you handled the glass of brandy. He told me it felt like watching a tightrope walker who knew the wire was about to snap.”
Silas flushed, a faint red creeping up his neck. “I… I just meant that your technique is very precise. Did you study in the city?”
“I did,” Sue said, grateful for the opening. “I grew up in Indianapolis—Eastwood High—but I went to NYU Tisch School of the Arts for my BFA. After that, I knew I needed more, so I continued studying at the Stella Adler Studio. Meisner is my foundation. Living truthfully under imaginary circumstances.”
“And Silas,” Vane added, turning his head toward the younger man, “is a product of a very different kind of discipline. Culver Military Academy, followed by a degree from Columbia University he didn’t want but his father insisted upon.”
“I wanted to be an architect,” Silas admitted quietly, looking out at the blurring neon of Broadway. “Or an art historian. Something that looked backward instead of always calculating the next quarter.”
“Silas has a soul that is perhaps too large for a logistics firm,” Vane said, his voice dripping with a supportive, older-brother warmth. “But that is why he appreciates your work, Susan. You do for a living what he can only do in his dreams.”
The car pulled up to a glass-and-steel monolith on 57th Street. They were whisked up a private elevator to the 60th floor—a private, members-only club where the walls were mahogany and the view of Central Park was an obsidian void punctuated by points of light.
They were seated at a secluded corner table. The lighting was amber and low, casting long shadows. No sooner had the waiter delivered a vintage scotch for the men and a gin martina for Sue than Vane’s phone buzzed on the table. He checked the screen, his expression tightening into a mask of professional duty.
“I’m sorry,” Vane said, standing up. “I have to take this. A shipment of heavy machinery is currently stuck at the Port of Rotterdam, and the Dutch aren’t known for their patience. Silas, entertain our guest. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
As Vane stepped away into the shadows of the lounge, the tension at the table softened. Sue watched Silas take a long sip of his drink.
“He’s very… efficient,” Sue remarked.
“Marcus is the only reason I can breathe some days,” Silas sighed. “He handles the ‘Titan’ so I don’t have to.” He looked at her, his eyes genuinely curious. “You mentioned Indianapolis. Do you get back often?”
“Not as much as I should,” Sue said, her voice dropping. “My parents… they were both teachers. They were killed in a car accident in 2008. It hit me hard. I went back to settle the estate, and when I came back to New York, I just couldn’t pick up where I left off, the spark, the passion was gone for a while, over a year in fact. When I did return it still felt false, it felt like I was just going through the motions. This production was the first time in a long time I felt like I was actually in the play.”
“I’m so sorry,” Silas P. said, reaching out as if to touch her hand before pulling back. “My mom….she took her own life while I was at Columbia. She couldn’t live up to my father’s expectations and was swallowed up and crushed under the weight of trying to.” My father, Paul… he’s a hard man. He doesn’t understand anything that can’t be weighed or invoiced.”
He looked at the skyline, a bitter smile on his face. “My grandfather, Silas J., started this. He was the Originator. He bought those first trucks with grease under his fingernails. Then my father took it and made it a monolith. He was the Builder. He took us global.” Silas trailed off, his shoulders slumping. “And that leaves me. I’m just the… the end of the line, I suppose. The disappointment.”
“No,” Sue said, her actress’s empathy flaring. She reached across the table, her fingers brushing his sleeve. “You aren’t a disappointment, Silas. You’re… you’re…”
She searched for the word, but a shadow fell over the table.
“…The Innovator,” a voice rumbled from behind them.
They both jumped. Marcus Vane had returned, silent as a ghost. He stood there with his hands in his pockets, his hair caught in the amber light, looking down at Silas with a strange, paternal pride.
“Silas is the one who will see the things his father missed,” Vane said smoothly. “He sees the beauty in the data. He is the future of Thorne Global.” He checked his watch and looked at Sue apologetically. “I’m afraid I have to cut this short. Duty calls. That call from Rotterdam has turned into a midnight conference.”
“Oh,” Sue said, feeling a strange mix of relief and disappointment. “I understand.”
“We could drop you off,” Silas suggested, standing up quickly. “It’s on the way to the office.”
“That won’t be possible, Silas,” Vane countered, his tone pleasant but unyielding. “Our business is time-sensitive. The car is downstairs to take us straight to the terminal.” He turned his cold, blue gaze to Sue. “I’ve taken the liberty of calling you a taxi. It’s waiting at the entrance. The fare has been taken care of, so you don’t have to worry about anything.”
He leaned in slightly, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “Perhaps you and Silas could get together some evening when you have more time? When the world isn’t demanding so much of him?”
“I’d like that,” Silas said, looking at Sue with a sudden, hopeful light.
“I’d like that too,” Sue agreed.
They rode the elevator down in an uncomfortable silence. The doors opened out into the lobby and they walked out to the street. There waiting for them was a classic Yellow Taxi and a large black town car. Silas opened the door of the taxi and offered a hand to help Susan in. “I do hope we can get together soon” Silas offered with a voice that was more pleading than asking.
“Of course, I’d love that.” Then Susan exclaimed, “Oh, I haven’t given you my number or any way of getting in touch.”
Silas smiled a genuine smile and nodded in the direction of Vane standing by the town car waiting, “No need.” and Susan understood and smiled back.
“Good night Silas” said Susan.
“Good night Susan” replied Silas and he shut the door and walked to the town car.
As the taxi pulled away Susan felt a chill that had nothing to do with the night air. Marcus Vane had just cast her in a play she didn’t realize she was auditioning for, and the first act had just ended.
Chapter 3
September 22, 1990
Harry Chapman woke before the sun, though he hadn’t meant to. Sleep had become a fragile thing lately—thin, easily torn, full of dreams he didn’t want and memories he couldn’t escape. His mother’s illness had changed the rhythm of the household, turning every day into a quiet, anxious vigil. His father spent long nights at the hospital or at work, and Harry, only seven years old, had begun to understand that grown-ups sometimes broke in ways children couldn’t fix.
That was why he spent so many weekends with his grandparents now. It wasn’t that his parents didn’t want him—it was that they didn’t want him to see them unraveling.
But at Grandpa Bill’s house, the world felt different. Lighter. Safer. Like the air itself carried a tune.
Harry lay still for a moment, listening. There it was: the soft, steady whistle drifting down the hallway. Grandpa Bill whistled constantly—tuneless, wandering melodies that seemed to rise from somewhere deep inside him. Grandpa was a tall lean man. Grandpa had many names. Harry called him grandpa. His dad called him dad. His mom and grandma called him Bill unless grandma was a little angry at him then she would call him William. There was a name stitched on a label attached to his worn leather flight jacket just above the left breast pocket, the jacket he always seemed to have on. The name embroidered on the label was Whistler, which suited grandpa well. Grandpa told Harry that was his call sign when he flew fighter planes. Harry wanted to be able to whistle like his grandpa but could hardly make a note. ‘Keep at it Harry, you’ll get there someday,” he would say with a wink.
Harry smiled into his pillow. If Grandpa was whistling, it meant he was awake, and if he was awake, it meant the “secret adventure” he had promised last night was about to begin.
He scrambled out of bed, pulled on his jeans and sweatshirt, and padded down the hallway.
Grandpa Bill stood in the kitchen, tall and lean, his silver hair combed back in a way that made him look both distinguished and mischievous. He wore the same leather flight jacket he always wore—scuffed, worn, and soft with age.
“Morning, kiddo,” Grandpa said, turning with a grin. “Ready for that adventure?”
Harry nodded so hard his hair flopped into his eyes.
“Good,” Grandpa said. “Because adventures require fuel. And I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”
They climbed into Grandpa’s old Ford pickup, the bench seat cracked and smelling faintly of oil and peppermint. The sky was still dark, the world tinted blue and gray. Streetlights glowed like lonely lanterns along the quiet road.
Grandpa drove with one hand on the wheel, the other tapping a rhythm on his thigh as he whistled something that might once have been a Sinatra tune. Harry leaned against the cool window, watching the empty streets slide by.
They pulled into a McDonald’s drive-thru, the golden arches buzzing faintly in the predawn stillness.
“Two breakfast meals,” Grandpa said into the speaker. “One with extra hash browns. For the copilot.”
Harry puffed up with pride. Copilot.
They ate in the truck as they drove—warm biscuits, salty hash browns, orange juice that tasted like sunshine squeezed into a paper cup. It was a cool, by Indiana standards, Saturday morning in September. Harry and his grandpa were to Marshal Airfield, a small grass strip airfield where grandpa kept and flew his ultralight. The airfield appeared like a secret revealed only to those who knew where to look. A narrow gravel road led to a wide stretch of grass that glistened with dew. Harry had been there several times before with his mom and dad before the illness. They would pack a picnic basket with sandwiches, chips and cookies for an evening dinner and watch grandpa fly his crazy machine. His dad and grandma didn’t share grandpa’s passion but tolerated it. This time it was just Harry and grandpa. The hangars—long, rectangular metal buildings—sat in a row like quiet sentinels. A windsock hung limp in the still air, waiting for the day to begin.
Harry inhaled deeply. The clean air smelled of cut grass, damp earth, old oil, and the faint metallic tang of aviation fuel. It was a smell that would imprint itself on him forever.
Grandpa parked beside the largest hangar and hopped out, his boots crunching on the gravel. He unlocked the heavy sliding doors, and with a grunt, pushed them open.
The scent hit Harry immediately—oil, rubber, dust, and something else he couldn’t name but would recognize for the rest of his life.
Inside the hangar were three aircraft:
- A Cessna 150, white with faded blue stripes, its wings stretching confidently across the space, the perfect training aircraft.
- A gyrocopter, strange and skeletal, its rotor blades looming overhead like the bones of a prehistoric bird. A machine that looked like it was still under construction and not a functioning aircraft.
- And Grandpa’s pride and joy: the Pterodactyl Ascender II+.
The Pterodactyl looked like something out of a dream—bright yellow and orange wings stretched taut over a frame of steel tubes and cables. The wooden propeller gleamed softly in the dim light.
It looked fragile. Impossible. Magical. It too made you wonder how something that looked like that could fly. The Pterodactyl had a two tone wing of yellow and orange nylon-like fabric. It sat up above the pilot’s seat. At the ends of the wings were small rectangular rudders that grandpa called winglets. There was no tail. Two large horizontal tubes went from the engine mount to about 8’ in front of the pilot. This was the “fuselage.” The pilot’s seat was a sling of canvas with pockets on either side to hold sunglasses, maps and any other gear needed. The seat was attached at the engine mount and over to a cross brace on the fuselage about 3’ away. Below the seat was the landing gear that was made up of two 20” bicycle tires with yellow “BMX” style wheels. The nose gear was a 16” bicycle tire that was steerable using your feet placed on a horizontal rod just above the tire. A rectangular yellow wing was attached at the end of the fuselage tubes. That was the elevator. A rod went from the elevator to a joystick mounted on the right side of the pilot’s seat. Connected to the joysticks were wires that went up into the wing and out to the winglets. To the left was a throttle. Behind the pilot seat mounted just behind the pilot’s head was the engine with a wooden propeller that pushed the plane rather than pulling it through the air. All these tubes and wings were held together with a jungle of steel cables. Grandpa had bought the Pterodactyl 3 years ago shortly after retiring and selling his flight school and sightseeing company.
Grandpa pulled the ultralight out of the hangar and began his preflight check, moving with the slow, deliberate grace of a man who had spent a lifetime trusting machines with his life. He tugged on cables, checked bolts, ran his fingers along the fabric of the wings.
Harry followed him, absorbing every movement.
“See this?” Grandpa said, tapping a cable. “This is what keeps the winglets talking to the joystick. Airplanes are conversations, Harry. You treat them right, they’ll tell you everything you need to know.”
Harry nodded solemnly.
Grandpa smiled. “You’re a good listener. That’s important in a pilot.”
The words warmed Harry from the inside out.
When the preflight was done, Grandpa climbed into the sling seat and looked over at Harry.
“Ready to go flying?”
Harry’s mouth fell open. “Me?”
“You,” Grandpa said. “Come on, copilot.”
Harry scrambled over the tubes, and Grandpa lifted him onto his lap. He fitted foam earplugs into Harry’s ears, then pulled a half-shell motorcycle helmet from a cradle of cables and settled it onto Harry’s head. It was too big, but it made Harry feel invincible.
Grandpa buckled the seatbelt across both of them, tightening it snugly.
“Now,” Grandpa said, “when we get in the air, your eyes might water. That’s normal. Just let it happen.”
Harry nodded, heart pounding.
Grandpa flipped the ignition switch, reached up, grabbed the pull-start rope, and shouted, “Clear!” to nobody but the few birds perched on the hangar.
He yanked the rope.
The engine roared to life.
The whole frame vibrated, the propeller spinning into a blur behind them. Grandpa pushed the throttle forward, lifted his feet onto the steering bar, and the Pterodactyl rolled out onto the runway.
Grandpa steered the plane down to one end of the runway and turned the plane to face the long stretch of grass. The sky was beginning to lighten, a soft glow spreading across the horizon. He dropped his feet to the ground and applied his human brakes, pushed the throttle as far as he could while trying to keep the plane from rolling forward. Once satisfied the engine was running well he tapped Harry on the shoulder and put his hand out in front of Harry’s face giving the thumbs up sign. Harry returned with his own miniature version.. Grandpa lifted his feet and they were rolling down the runway, faster and faster. The grass blurred beneath them. The wind pressed against Harry’s face. His heart hammered in his chest. Within a few hundred feet grandpa eased back on the joystick and the Pterodactyl lifted off the ground and headed skyward.
They were flying.
The world below shrank into a patchwork of fields, barns, and winding roads. The air was cold and clean, rushing past Harry’s cheeks. His eyes watered, just like Grandpa said they would, but he didn’t care.
He felt weightless. Boundless. Free.
Grandpa leveled off at two thousand feet and flicked the kill switch. The engine died, leaving only the soft whistle of wind through the cables.
Harry gasped.
The silence was enormous.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Grandpa said.
Harry nodded, unable to speak.
“Watch the horizon,” Grandpa said, pointing east. Harry looked to where his grandpa pointed. He could see where the sky was getting brighter and brighter. In a blink of an eye, the sun peeked over the horizon. Light raced across the landscape. The shadows of trees and barns streaked across the ground in an instant. Within a few minutes the sun was fully up and the colors that were once a bunch of muted shades of gray were shades of green, yellow, brown and red. The ground below was a patchwork of color just like Harry had seen in some of the books that had been read to him since he was born.
Grandpa banked the plane around and then he shouted as he pointed to a spot on the ground, “Look.”
Harry couldn’t see what he was pointing at. “Hang on” he said as he flicked the kill switch on and pulled down on the starter rope and the engine fired to life. He lowered the nose and the plane dove down toward a cornfield. He leveled off about 20’ above the top of a freshly cut down corn field. As they raced over the field, Harry saw what grandpa had seen. About 6 or 7 deer that had been eating some of the uncollected ears of corn, were jumping through the field in front and to the right of them. Harry watched as the deer veered off and headed into the woods. Grandpa pulled back on the stick and they were off to the sky again. When they reached altitude again, Grandpa killed the engine again and placed Harry’s small hand on the joystick.
“Your turn.”
Harry froze. “Really?”
“Really. I’ve got you.”
Harry pushed gently. The plane wobbled.
“Easy,” Grandpa murmured. “Small movements. Airplanes like whispers, not shouts.”
Harry tried again.
This time, the Pterodactyl responded smoothly, banking left, then right. He made a full circle, the world spinning gently beneath them.
He felt like he had discovered a secret language.
Grandpa took control once more and fired up the engine and climbed back up. He shut the engine down one last time.
“This is what they call a ‘Dead Stick Landing’ Harry. Every pilot needs to be able to bring down his plane in one piece without engine power. You never know when it will happen but I can guarantee you, it will.”
Harry watched his grandpa swoop and turn in graceful arcs losing altitude. Ahead of them Harry spotted the grass strip they took off from and the rows of hangars. Grandpa brought them down to a gentle landing. Harry watched as he steered the plane as it rolled to a stop just a few feet from where the adventure began.
Grandpa unhooked the seatbelt and helped Harry out. He climbed out and helped Harry with the helmet. “Well what did you think of that kiddo?”
“That was so fun grandpa, so much fun! Harry rushed and threw his arms around his grandpa’s legs. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
“You’re welcome Harry, but hey, let’s just keep this between you and me for now. I’m not sure your mom and dad would appreciate it and I know grandma wouldn’t, so mums the word, okay?”
“Sure thing grandpa” Harry replied.
Grandpa moved the plane back into the hangar and pushed the hangar doors shut and replaced the padlock. He turned and said, “Ready to go Harry …..Harry … Harry?”