Welcome to my first post!
This is a story that I wrote a while back that got an honorable mention in the 2015 Writer's Digest Competition - which is still the only award that I've ever received for writing.
As with all posts, any and all feedback is welcomed. Enjoy!
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He sat in the cargo bay, along with the twenty plus other passengers, bent over with is head tucked down between his kneecaps. This position which, from an outsider’s perspective, looked quite cowardly - almost like retreat to the comfort of fetal safety - was, in fact, the U.S. Navy’s official crash-landing position. This was the position that they trained all of their pilots and aircrew to conform to at the first threat of an eminent “forced landing.” The intent was, of course, to keep from breaking your fucking spine on impact, but all Pvt. James could think about was a cock-pit full of aircrewmen desperately trying, one last time, to suck their own dicks before spiraling down to certain death. Either way, whatever your reasons, this is the position that you want to be in at a time like this.
There was minimal activity along the poolside - small talk here and there among the instructors, last minute checks and double checks of equipment, shuffling across wet tiles. As the moment approached, each gaze in the room was directed up toward the monolithic structure suspended 20 ft. above the water. This giant cylinder, fashioned to resemble a scale-size C-130 cargo bay, was held up on either end by thick metal arms that jutted out 45 degrees from the opposite end of the pool. Inside the cargo bay the cock-suckers were all strapped in, blindfolded, and bent as far over as their bodies would let them. There was a humming in the air whose silence drowned out all other ambient noise. They were waiting there, staring at their crotches in total silence, obsessing about the thing that was about to happen. The fatter students were starting to loose circulation to their legs.
At the base of the left arm, Petty Officer Malik was standing with his hands on the controls levers, waiting for the thumbs-up from the scuba divers. As the moment grew closer, his gaze become fixated toward the end of the pool where the scuba team was gathered. This dunk was going to be special - a good dunk. His last dunk. He had just finished his exit interview with the commander that morning, and his final leave started in two hours. He had been manning the dunk tank for the past three and half years and, with a simple jerk of a lever, had sent hundreds of terrified, cock-sucking aircrewman plunging down into their own wet, panicking nightmares. It wasn’t so much the power over people that he enjoyed about his dunking duties (not a sadistic bone in his body, really). Rather, it was the raw power that he liked. And who wouldn’t? Those thick steel arms with hydraulic veins running up the sides. He would often imagine a jolly blue giant (it’s the Navy, so of course the whole rig’s painted blue) throwing a fit and smashing a rolling pin up and down in the water. He would imitate this up-and-down smashing motion during the ops checks, when the officers weren’t around to scold him about damage to government equipment and other such crap that generally doesn’t bother enlisted men.
Out at the other end of the pool, a gloved hand pops out of the water and holds a thumbs-up for about five seconds, before disappearing. Petty Officer Malik receives the signal, does a quick scan of the place, takes a quick breath through his nose, and jerks the lever down quicker than it has been jerked in the last three and a half years. This was his last dunk, and he was going to make it count. This crew was going to get a realer experience than any of their predecessors had. They were going to be incrementally more prepared for a crash landing than any other group that had come before them. “You’re welcome,” thought Malik, as he watched the rolling pin turn upside down and crash down into the pool.
- The End