Post by krow on Jan 26, 2014 10:25:05 GMT
My name is Christoper Riley Hutchinson and I was born in Nebraska. Have you ever been to Nebraska? Well it's on Earth, for starters. If you haven't been there, I can sum it up in one word. Flat. The land is flat, the people are flat, even the air is flat. And my parents loved it. Our family had lived in Nebraska for generations farming the same land and doing the same things. My father claimed that our ancestors were the original settlers to this place. I believe it. Only my family could look out at a horizon with nothing on it and decide to live there. My parents are the God fearing kind. They always taught my sister and I that a hard day's work will get you into heaven one day. Me? I decided to find my own heaven. And this is what my story is about.
I'll admit, Nebraska has one thing going for it. The sky. Where I lived, you can walk out into the prairie and look all around you and see nothing but grass and sky. I would lay in the grass and stare at it for hours. To my young eyes, that blue dome was the biggest thing I had ever seen. Nothing was bigger or more magical and I would dream about it every night. Of course, my parents taught me even before school about what lay beyond. They told me stories about the vastness of space, the countless worlds that circled the countless starts, and the voyages of great humans like Kirk and Janeway. I was amazed, but to me there couldn't be anything bigger than the Nebraska sky.
I grew up quick and I grew up strong. Working on a farm isn't an easy life, especially when your farm was dying. My parents wouldn't admit it, but the times were changing. They just couldn't make ends meet and the farm showed it. But they refused to leave their land. So my sister and I had to work extra hard. I went to school, then came home and worked till dark. Day after day. But I made friends, I fought, I chased girls, I did homework. You know, average little boy stuff. And I simply adored anything to do with the sky. Especially ancient planes. We watched a holovid on World War 2 when I was in second grade, and it got in my veins like a drug. My room was covered with old pictures, paintings, models, books, all filled with planes. So yeah, I was a little obsessed.
Our farm had an old plane that we used for crop dusting. An old technique, but my parents were traditionalists. It was a beat up thing. Older than my father and twice as ugly, it even used an old prop motor powered by battery. One day, the pilot we had hired quit. He just walked off. So, natually, I volunteered. My parents were wary at first, seeing as I could just barely reach the rudder pedals, but they were desperate and I wouldn't shut up about it. It was a two-seater, so my father flew at first with me in the back. He taught me in his own way. Quick, gruff, to the point, with no coddling or praise. I had flown in the old plane before from time to time with our hired pilot, but this was different. I was learning. I took to it like a fish to water and was ready for my first solo flight in a little over a week. I still remember it to this day in perfect detail. That big Nebraska sky that I loved so much seemed to reach out and hold me. Now, i'm not the overly poetic type. But that day? That was the day I found my heaven.
I got good fast. Real fast. I was the plane's pilot, mechanic, and dare I say friend. But pretty soon, I got bored with flying low and slow back and forth over the endless miles of fields. Back and forth, back and forth. It was torture. As I got older, my parents gave me more free reign and I happily took it. I would fly to some of the small cities nearby to look at the planes in the airports and talk to the pilots and crews in the airport lounges. It was there I got my first taste of racing. It was small. A few of us local boys decided to race our beaters to the next town and back. I flew harder and faster than I had ever flown before. I loved it. Finally something new. I don't even remember if I won or not. It wasn't important, only the thrill was. I suppose that was when I became addicted to adrenaline. That lovely natural drug that makes your blood pump and skin wriggle. And like any junkie I wanted, no needed more. I began taking risks. Stupid and dangerous risks. I had lost my direction. I started skipping classes, stealing, vandalism, anything I could think of to get a spurt of adrenaline. It was getting out of hand and my racing was bringing me closer and closer to death.
Then one day my parents took me to an air show. I don't remember much of it, just the important part. My heart seemed to skip a beat as a formation of Peregrine fighters screamed over the crowd. I was trasfixed as they shot back and forth over me, narrowly missing eachother by what seemed inches. The people around me and even the world seemed to melt away. It was almost spiritual. Afterwards, the pilots stood by their ships and talked to people. I got up my courage and talked to one of them. A tall Andorian fellow with broad shoulders and a huge grin. I talked to him for what seemed like hours, and by the end I had found my new calling. I would join Starfleet and become a fighter pilot even if it killed me.
I shaped up immediately. No more racing for me. My days consisted of nothing but School, homework, and chores. Yeah, I still had a wild side but I didn't let it interfere with school. When I told my parents my plan to enroll in Starfleet Academy, they were not happy. Dad yelled and Mom cried. I shrugged and simply told them I couldn't stay there anymore. I was accepted by the Academy and left for California the next year. I never looked back.
Academy life made farm life look like a five star resort. The stress was unimaginable. I had never seen so many people in my life, and that sky... It was blocked by buildings. I could barely even see it anymore. But I moved forewards. I made friends. People like me, who were scared shitless but determined. My grades were good, but problems arose. I liked to drink, I liked women too much, and I was belligerent and arguementative with my teachers and instructors. It became apparent I had a problem with authority, and everyone knew it. But despite that, I still managed to get into the MACOs. There it got harder. You can't have a problem with authority in MACO. I think the only thing that got me in was my scores on the entrance exam. I was good, and they needed good pilots desperately. I tried to shape up, and eventually got better at the yes sirs and salutes.
But one of my instructors decided I wan't cut out for being a MACO. A Vulcan man. He said he would do whatever he could to keep me from graduating claiming that my arrogance and habit of disobeying orders would get people killed, even though I had proved time and time again that when push came to shove I DID have what it took. I just needed to iron out some issues. But after a few months, it became readily apparent that he meant business. I was in danger of flunking out on formal reprimands alone. One night I was sitting in a local bar nursing a beer and trying to decide what do do, when a Vulcan girl walked through the door.
A couple years and about a dozen paternity tests later, I was smiling out at my classmates wearing a cap and gown. I had done it. I had given it my all and then some, and I had done it. MACO Fighter pilot Christoper Riley Hutchinson. I went home to tell my parents. They were beyond proud and even my father couldn't help but shed a tear at the man I had become. Later that night, I laid on the grass looking out at that endless Nebraska sky. I couldn't help think I was going to be leaving this Heaven of mine behind. Then I realized, I wasn't leaving my sky behind. It was just a lot bigger than I thought it was, and I was finally going to see it all.
I'll see you out there.
I'll admit, Nebraska has one thing going for it. The sky. Where I lived, you can walk out into the prairie and look all around you and see nothing but grass and sky. I would lay in the grass and stare at it for hours. To my young eyes, that blue dome was the biggest thing I had ever seen. Nothing was bigger or more magical and I would dream about it every night. Of course, my parents taught me even before school about what lay beyond. They told me stories about the vastness of space, the countless worlds that circled the countless starts, and the voyages of great humans like Kirk and Janeway. I was amazed, but to me there couldn't be anything bigger than the Nebraska sky.
I grew up quick and I grew up strong. Working on a farm isn't an easy life, especially when your farm was dying. My parents wouldn't admit it, but the times were changing. They just couldn't make ends meet and the farm showed it. But they refused to leave their land. So my sister and I had to work extra hard. I went to school, then came home and worked till dark. Day after day. But I made friends, I fought, I chased girls, I did homework. You know, average little boy stuff. And I simply adored anything to do with the sky. Especially ancient planes. We watched a holovid on World War 2 when I was in second grade, and it got in my veins like a drug. My room was covered with old pictures, paintings, models, books, all filled with planes. So yeah, I was a little obsessed.
Our farm had an old plane that we used for crop dusting. An old technique, but my parents were traditionalists. It was a beat up thing. Older than my father and twice as ugly, it even used an old prop motor powered by battery. One day, the pilot we had hired quit. He just walked off. So, natually, I volunteered. My parents were wary at first, seeing as I could just barely reach the rudder pedals, but they were desperate and I wouldn't shut up about it. It was a two-seater, so my father flew at first with me in the back. He taught me in his own way. Quick, gruff, to the point, with no coddling or praise. I had flown in the old plane before from time to time with our hired pilot, but this was different. I was learning. I took to it like a fish to water and was ready for my first solo flight in a little over a week. I still remember it to this day in perfect detail. That big Nebraska sky that I loved so much seemed to reach out and hold me. Now, i'm not the overly poetic type. But that day? That was the day I found my heaven.
I got good fast. Real fast. I was the plane's pilot, mechanic, and dare I say friend. But pretty soon, I got bored with flying low and slow back and forth over the endless miles of fields. Back and forth, back and forth. It was torture. As I got older, my parents gave me more free reign and I happily took it. I would fly to some of the small cities nearby to look at the planes in the airports and talk to the pilots and crews in the airport lounges. It was there I got my first taste of racing. It was small. A few of us local boys decided to race our beaters to the next town and back. I flew harder and faster than I had ever flown before. I loved it. Finally something new. I don't even remember if I won or not. It wasn't important, only the thrill was. I suppose that was when I became addicted to adrenaline. That lovely natural drug that makes your blood pump and skin wriggle. And like any junkie I wanted, no needed more. I began taking risks. Stupid and dangerous risks. I had lost my direction. I started skipping classes, stealing, vandalism, anything I could think of to get a spurt of adrenaline. It was getting out of hand and my racing was bringing me closer and closer to death.
Then one day my parents took me to an air show. I don't remember much of it, just the important part. My heart seemed to skip a beat as a formation of Peregrine fighters screamed over the crowd. I was trasfixed as they shot back and forth over me, narrowly missing eachother by what seemed inches. The people around me and even the world seemed to melt away. It was almost spiritual. Afterwards, the pilots stood by their ships and talked to people. I got up my courage and talked to one of them. A tall Andorian fellow with broad shoulders and a huge grin. I talked to him for what seemed like hours, and by the end I had found my new calling. I would join Starfleet and become a fighter pilot even if it killed me.
I shaped up immediately. No more racing for me. My days consisted of nothing but School, homework, and chores. Yeah, I still had a wild side but I didn't let it interfere with school. When I told my parents my plan to enroll in Starfleet Academy, they were not happy. Dad yelled and Mom cried. I shrugged and simply told them I couldn't stay there anymore. I was accepted by the Academy and left for California the next year. I never looked back.
Academy life made farm life look like a five star resort. The stress was unimaginable. I had never seen so many people in my life, and that sky... It was blocked by buildings. I could barely even see it anymore. But I moved forewards. I made friends. People like me, who were scared shitless but determined. My grades were good, but problems arose. I liked to drink, I liked women too much, and I was belligerent and arguementative with my teachers and instructors. It became apparent I had a problem with authority, and everyone knew it. But despite that, I still managed to get into the MACOs. There it got harder. You can't have a problem with authority in MACO. I think the only thing that got me in was my scores on the entrance exam. I was good, and they needed good pilots desperately. I tried to shape up, and eventually got better at the yes sirs and salutes.
But one of my instructors decided I wan't cut out for being a MACO. A Vulcan man. He said he would do whatever he could to keep me from graduating claiming that my arrogance and habit of disobeying orders would get people killed, even though I had proved time and time again that when push came to shove I DID have what it took. I just needed to iron out some issues. But after a few months, it became readily apparent that he meant business. I was in danger of flunking out on formal reprimands alone. One night I was sitting in a local bar nursing a beer and trying to decide what do do, when a Vulcan girl walked through the door.
A couple years and about a dozen paternity tests later, I was smiling out at my classmates wearing a cap and gown. I had done it. I had given it my all and then some, and I had done it. MACO Fighter pilot Christoper Riley Hutchinson. I went home to tell my parents. They were beyond proud and even my father couldn't help but shed a tear at the man I had become. Later that night, I laid on the grass looking out at that endless Nebraska sky. I couldn't help think I was going to be leaving this Heaven of mine behind. Then I realized, I wasn't leaving my sky behind. It was just a lot bigger than I thought it was, and I was finally going to see it all.
I'll see you out there.