The Paper Airplane

It was noon, late in May, and the teacher was droning on. Outside the open window, a cool breeze pushed the swings. The creak of the rusty hinges called to children in the hot stuffy classroom who were bored out of their minds. Insects hidden in the grass sang their carefree song, taunting the captive students.

The teacher rattled on while scribbling furiously on the blackboard with his little chalk stub, but nobody was listening. Some were daydreaming, others were passing notes, and a few were doodling. A boy in the back of the classroom was folding a paper airplane. He had the tip of his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth as he laboriously checked to make sure the folds were strait.

The boy had a friend who sat near the window. He was watching as the boy folded the plane. When the boy sent the plane flying, he leapt up to catch it, but missed. The plane sailed out the window. The friend looked at the boy apologetically, but the boy shrugged; he had plenty of paper.

As the plane left the classroom, the breeze caught it and carried it far away. It flew over the fence surrounding the schoolyard and past the nearby houses. It drifted over streets and around apartments. Finally, it landed at the foot of an oak tree in a park.

The cricket always wanted to fly. Everyday, he watched his distant cousin the grasshopper jumping high overhead. To the cricket, you could touch the sky if you jumped as high as the grasshopper. He spent hours daydreaming about his non existent wings as he watched the butterflies and bees fluttering to and fro.

The blades of grass swayed in the gentle breeze, but to the cricket it seemed as if a storm was going on. The grass loomed overhead, threatening to snap and trap him. He hopped along the base of the tree, headed for the leeside, and hit his head on a giant white thing.

The cricket had never seen anything like it before. It had a central body with flat slabs sticking out. There was a narrow alley in the central body and the cricket climbed into it, away from the wind. Gradually, he dozed off.

Jolting and shaking woke the cricket. He looked up and saw that a squirrel was dragging the white thing toward his lair. The squirrel started ascending, and the cricket clung on for dear life.

The squirrel reached his lair. He started to walk in when another squirrel blocked his way. They started chattering at each other angrily and, eventually, the first squirrel chased the second one down the tree, leaving his find on the branch.

Once again, the warm breeze carried the plane away.

The cricket looked around him. He was flying. He felt all the happiness that is allowed to cricket as he realized his dream came true. He looked down at the grass he felt threatened by, the ones that were now just green masses. He looked up and found that he was now racing with the clouds.

The plane was carried over highways, past buildings, over pastures, and through trees. This time, when the breeze let the plane drop, it landed in a field on the outskirts of the town.

The cricket got off the plane. He was dizzy, but happy. The crickets of the field had watched as the plane landed and were shocked when a fellow cricket got off. They thought him a cricket god, and led him to their home. The cricket told his story, exaggerating here and there, but he didn't need to; the field crickets were awed already. The plane was left where it landed, already forgotten.

The robin was hungry. He was flying around, looking for food. As he passed over a field, he spied an odd-looking white thing. He dove down for a closer look and found himself staring at a strange object.

The robin was young. He had just left his nest and didn't know much. His parents had made their nest far from civilization, and as a result, the robin had never seen a human or anything artificial. The paper plane was the first man-made object he encountered, but definitely not the last.

The robin pecked at the white object with certain curiosity. He didn't know if it was good to eat. He had no idea and decided to take the plane up into a tree and find out the answer there. So he grabbed the plane in his claws and flew up to the nearest tree.

The robin bit in to his prize. It tasted horrible and he spat it back out. Disappointed, he flew away, leaving the object behind.

For the third time, the breeze carried the plane away.

The plane flew over gardens, over shops, over schools. A light drizzle had started falling and the plane was getting soggy. This time, it landed on a porch.

The cat ran home, hissing at the rain. It had started before he had a chance to catch anything. Shaking off his wet fur, he spotted the paper plane. Perhaps it wasn't a fruitless day after all. He had seen his master making these things and perhaps he would like it. Besides, it had a vague robin odor.

The cat carried the paper plane through the pet door and left it on the kitchen table. The humans were asleep by now, but they would see it tomorrow during their morning meal. The cat purred as he imagined surprise and delight. He trotted toward his bed and curled up into snoring ball.

The boy was the first to wake up the next day. He found the tattered plane and looked at it curiously. It was dry by then, but strangely misshapen, and the boy looked at it with new eyes. He didn't recognize his own plane. He shrugged; he had no use for a tattered plane. He straitened its wings and sent it flying through the open window.

It was morning, late in May, and the birds were chirping. A small breeze carried a misshapen paper plane far away. Many looked upon it, but they had no idea how much a paper plane can go through.