The WindriderThe

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The Windrider

by Reagan Word

Jon took the long way to school so that he could pedal his bike by a
small airport. Often he arrived right in time to see a plane landing or
taking off. Today he was studying a new biplane when the wind swept his
latest airplane drawing from his hand. The drawing floated along
until a pilot snatched it from the air.

"Nice catch!" Jon said.

“Does this belong to you?” the pilot
asked, holding up the colorful drawing.

“Yes, sir."

“The Windrider, eh? Nice work.
You’re quite an artist."

"Thanks. Aren't you the coach for
the new baseball team?"

"Sure am! I’m Coach Smith. What’s your name?”

“Jon. They call me Plane Brain at school because I’m always drawing
airplanes. Always have. My Dad taught me. He’s a pilot, too.”

“That’s great.”

“It’s not so great now. My parents aren't together anymore. I just
moved here with my Mom.”

“I see,” Coach Smith paused, handing the drawing back.

"Better be on my way." Jon replied sadly.

Jon reached for his bike. Sensing Jon's sorrow, Coach Smith extended his hand adding. "Not to worry. Things can change. Be open. Be ready!"

Jon didn't understand but shook the Coach's hand anyway and headed for school.

"That was close," Jon thought as

he reached school just in time for the first bell. Later that morning he

stepped onto the playground for recess as the captains were choosing

teams for baseball.

Most of the players had been picked when the first captain groaned,

“Oh all right, I’ll take Jon!”

“It’s embarrassing to be chosen last
every time,” Jon thought.

After the game Jon hurried to math class. “I can’t believe I dropped a fly
ball and struck out again. I can do better than that,” he murmured to himself.

He took his seat while Mr. Bronson added to a long list of problems on
the chalkboard.

“What’s your answer to number five, Jon?” Mr. Bronson asked.

Jon was working on his airplane design and didn’t respond.

“Hey, Plane Brain, it’s your turn,” a classmate teased.

Jon looked up to find Mr. Bronson and the whole class waiting for his response.

“What’s the question, sir?” Jon sighed feeling more embarrassed than ever.

Discouraged by his day at school, Jon arrived home while his Mom was
still at work. Ignoring the dinner she had prepared, he grabbed a box of
cereal from the kitchen. He went to his room and threw his backpack into
the corner. The noise woke Taco, his pet gecko,

who was sleeping in his pickle jar.

“I just don’t fit in. Everyone thinks I’m weird. You understand me don't you, Taco?”

The gecko tilted its head and blinked.

Then he remembered his Windrider sketch, took it out of his pack and
started adding more color and detail while stuffing cereal into his mouth.

Completing his drawing, Jon held it up for inspection. After a long look
he cried, “Oh, I’m just wasting my time doing these dumb drawings!”

Frustrated, he flopped onto his bed. "If things could change.., more than anything ... I would like to have a real friend."

Coach's words echoed in his mind. "Be open. Be Ready."

Soon Jon fell into a deep sleep.

A strong breeze stirred the curtains next to Jon’s bed. He opened his
eyes to discover that he was standing on his desk next to a real
Windrider complete with pilot! He was smaller than a pushpin and the
things on his desk were as tall as buildings.

The pilot smiled and introduced himself, “I’m Captain Windsmith.
Your Maker asked me to deliver this plane to you.”

"My Maker! You know my Maker?

"Sure do! He's placed you in my special care."

"Really?" Jon was amazed that his Maker would take such an interest in him when no one else in this world seemed to care that much.

“How about this plane? It looks just like my drawing!” Jon beamed.

“It does indeed. Ready to take her up?”

“You bet!” Jon answered .

"Do you think it will fly?”

“It should take to the wind quite well,” the Captain winked. “That is, if we can get the rest

of your cereal flakes off the runway.”

Blushing, Jon struggled to push a giant flake out of their way. Tossing
his pack into the cockpit, Jon was surprised to see Taco standing on a
nearby pushpin.

“Taco, what are you doing here?”

“Hey, I need some fresh air too! That pickle jar is driving me crazy!”

The Captain glanced at Jon, “Taco can come. He can sit up front in the
nose pod. Help him with a parachute and a helmet.”

“Nose pod? I don’t remember designing a nose pod,” Jon whispered, carrying

Taco over to the Windrider’s smallest cockpit.

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