Post by Harper, F. H. on Apr 25, 2008 18:15:36 GMT -5
Franko drove his car to where the old bakery was, he was dead tired of life, just getting out of the hospital ship he was at since he was shot to hell in Africa. His body was somewhat scathed from the war, nerve damage and a fracture in his left forearm left him able to be ‘Put to sleep’ by the Army Doctors. Yet as hard as the pain was, he took it to the extent that it would kill a lesser man. And Franko knew all too well about this feeling, since his co-pilot suffered the fate opposite of Franko. Though he never spoke of Lieutenant Burke, it was too harsh for him to face the reality of the death of his closest friend.
At the calm age of 32, he is well built, but has a slight limp. His hair looks good, slicked back and letting his black hair shine if he even takes off his hat. His eyes are a moon-like yellow, an unnatural thing for most people, no doubt a birth defect. He stands 1.83 meters tall and weighs 80 kilograms. His clothing is a standard high altitude flight suit; a sheep-skin lined coat, over-pants, and boots. His flight jacket is an American one, pinned with a few Flight awards and so on and so forth. And his hat, an officer’s one, is marked with an eagle carrying olive branches.
The car, however, forced to a stop infront of the property Franko had purchased with the money he had saved up over time. It was quaint, timidly me approached it on foot, leaving the car shut and locked behind him. He then ran his fingers down the sleek brown-painted wooden door. It was a sensation he never thought he’d ever feel again. Home, safety, joy was that sensation; and he embraced it fully. But as he did, the pains set in once again. His back arched and he pushed himself again the door, sobbing in pain. It was like a million needles were just pushed into his spine. “God make the pain stop,” he managed to whimper pitifully.
At the calm age of 32, he is well built, but has a slight limp. His hair looks good, slicked back and letting his black hair shine if he even takes off his hat. His eyes are a moon-like yellow, an unnatural thing for most people, no doubt a birth defect. He stands 1.83 meters tall and weighs 80 kilograms. His clothing is a standard high altitude flight suit; a sheep-skin lined coat, over-pants, and boots. His flight jacket is an American one, pinned with a few Flight awards and so on and so forth. And his hat, an officer’s one, is marked with an eagle carrying olive branches.
The car, however, forced to a stop infront of the property Franko had purchased with the money he had saved up over time. It was quaint, timidly me approached it on foot, leaving the car shut and locked behind him. He then ran his fingers down the sleek brown-painted wooden door. It was a sensation he never thought he’d ever feel again. Home, safety, joy was that sensation; and he embraced it fully. But as he did, the pains set in once again. His back arched and he pushed himself again the door, sobbing in pain. It was like a million needles were just pushed into his spine. “God make the pain stop,” he managed to whimper pitifully.
