‘Fish out of water’ short story

The following story made it to the top 64 in a recent Writing Battle. Since the contest ended, I have revised it based on feedback.

Cover created in Canva

Sister Jean Natalia could not explain how she, an introvert to rival the crustaceous hermit crab itself, became a nun, yet here she was, at Our Lady of the Saints of Perpetual Sanctity of the Spirit.

Of course she sought to be of help in her community, but mostly she wanted to be left alone. She startled at loud noises, had panic attacks in crowds, and thrived on a strict schedule.

Which is why on one quiet Tuesday a knock at her cell door sent her world into a tailspin.

“Sister Jean Natalia?” boomed the loudest nun of the bunch, Sister Patience Pru.

Sister Jean swiftly closed the day’s NYT crossword puzzle into her Bible and slipped the pencil under her thin mattress.

“Yes, come in,” she said, trying to slow the rapid beating of her heart.

“There’s been an earthquake in Blackwater Hollow. We must go now to help the displaced.”

“Blackwater Hollow? Why, that’s hundreds of miles away.”

“Indeed. We’ll be boarding the bus shortly.” With that, Sister Patience Pru stomped out of the room, taking her heavy voice with her.

Sister Jean’s mind swirled with numbers: fifty-seven nuns, a bus with twenty-eight seats, a seventeen-hour drive, one Sister Patience Pru.

As a stream of black and white ascended the bus steps and Sister Jean’s body erupted in hives, the convent’s most obnoxious neighbor, Mr. Gus McGill, limped over to the bus. He happened to own a Piper J-3 Cub vintage two-seater plane, which he announced he would use to fly one lucky sister to Blackwater Hollow.

“Get there in less than half the time if you’re not hefty,” he said, white wisps of hair hanging on desperately from a red scalp.

Sister Jean weighed her options. A few hours in an old plane with an even older man with questionable flying credentials (not to mention his annoying character) versus the aforementioned bus situation?

She chose the plane, which had “Air Force One” and a happy face scrawled on its side in blue paint.

For a moment, Sister Jean considered herself fortunate, boarding the plane as the only passenger. That was before Mr. Gus McGill yapped incessantly, shouting over the roaring engine. When he suddenly became quiet, the sister rejoiced – until she realized the pilot had passed out at fifty-five hundred feet.

“Oh, my God!” She looked at the control panel: five gauges, three knobs, a switch, something that looked like a gear shift, and two pedals down below. The plane made a sudden lurch, and she knew she had to do something.

Heart hammering, she scrambled over McGill, edging him out of the way, and maneuvered into the pilot’s seat. Tears and nervous sweat mingled on Sister Jean’s face as she grabbed the stick in front of her and pulled.

“Dear Lord, dear Lord, dear Lord,” the sister whimpered as the plane rocked left and right and treetops grew ever closer beneath her. “We’re going to crash!”

But a long, narrow clearing in the trees opened up like a miraculous runway, and the plane’s engine drowned out the panic in her head. She kissed the crucifix hanging around her neck and eased the throttle back, dipping the plane’s nose gently toward the ground.

I’m flying a plane! the sister thought. I’m landing a plane!

And as she touched down with nary a bump, quiet Sister Jean Natalia realized she was whooping, a triumphant fist punching the air.

The plane drew to a stop, and the engine died, but Sister Jean felt more alive than ever. She reached over and took the pilot’s badge from his lapel and pinned it to her own. Then she radioed for help.