A Short Story (based on actual experiences)

I was somewhat reluctant to post this but my sister Emily, who is probably the smartest most literary person I know, loved it. And, John encouraged me to post it. So, here 'tis.
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The tiny drops of water vapor boiled and seethed on the turbulent winds, crashing into one another and slowly growing in size until they were too heavy to overcome gravity any longer. Around them the lightning cracked like long whips of electricity, and thunder boomed and rolled like timpani drums, as they fell in a torrent from the bottom of the swirling maelstrom above.

Peter gave an annoyed glance to the pilot seated on his left, as he bent and contorted his body into a series of awkward and uncomfortable positions, trying to get the storm nicely composed in his camera's viewfinder. Not an easy task, seeing as how the old pilot had absolutely no interest in the breathtaking panorama outside the widows, and was now fully engrossed in shooting practice approaches into his small grass airstrip.

For years a tall clump of trees grew right off the end of the short -only eighteen hundred foot- runway. This caused anyone brave or stupid enough to hazard a landing there to have to hold his airplane up on the verge of a stall, perilously close to the tops of those trees, before letting the craft finally settle down to a quite often bone crunching landing. The trees were an endless source of consternation to old aviator Rick Marlowe, as they were incessantly growing taller, and taller, into his approach path. And, for years he had contemplated cutting them down, going so far as to ask his neighbor Mr. Phelps -on who's land the trees grew- for permission to do so. With the crusty old farmer's blessing, Rick then talked about felling the trees for several years more, before getting around to actually doing it.

With the offending trees now out of the way, Rick was anxious to tryout his new and less perilous landing path, and was thoroughly enjoying his repeated passes over the small strip of finely shorn grass. "Can you feel that shudder? That don't feel right." said Rick. This, and the fact that Peter was having difficulty getting a good shot, was in effect transplanting the pilot's consternation into his camera toting passenger. "Why does he always have to scare me like this?" thought Peter, who, despite his mounting annoyance, and fear of becoming part of a flaming heap of wreckage, decided to just keep his mouth shut. After all, Peter didn't want to look a gift horse in the mouth, and the aspiring young photojournalist would be hard pressed to find anyone else happy to fly him for free. Besides, putting up with Rick's constant complaining about the finer workings of his aircraft, and the fact that he flew pretty much as he pleased, and not as the photographer would have him fly, was enough of a price to pay for the praise in earned Peter from his editor.

Peter would occasionally call upon Rick's services for various photographic missions. Usually whenever he thought an aerial photo would give an added flourish to one of his articles. A picture of a storm, for example, was almost always better from the storm's level than from ground level. His current article was on the unseasonably wet August the area was having.
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Well, that's all for now. I plan to write more whenever the inspireation strikes.