All the bastards gave me was a pair of goggles to keep debris out of my eyes as I plummeted to my death. How thoughtful.
They call it "bouncing" in skydiver lingo when a parachute deployment fails, rendering the diver a guaranteed asteroid on a direct course with the cruel earth.
The debris did sting so I closed my eyes for a moment and enjoyed the ride. Then I remembered the goggles. I pulled them over my face to shield my overstimulated eyes. Now I could really enjoy my final ride. God was it fun. I started feeling like it wasn't such a bad way to go after all.
Like every animal though, the "gravity" of the situation began to stir my survival instinct. I desperately struggled to develop a solution to my predicament. As the ground neared I realized I was splatter.
With one last hope I directed all my energy upward and, with only a football field or so between myself and demise, I wrenched my frame and began to soar upward. I think it might be too obvious to relate that this last-second evolution was very welcome.
