The indigenous Romanian aircraft initiated in 1937 is known as the IAR 80. This low-wing, monoplane fighter aircraft was primarily produced as a private venture. IAR were tenacious in their creation of the favoured fighter plane. Combining the advantageous features of the Polish PZL P-24 with those of the IAR 24 allowed Dr. Ion Grosu along with a team of engineers to lead a successful breakthrough in Eastern Front war planes. Unique amongst its various contemporaries, the IAR 80 comprises an open cockpit and retractable landing gear. Such equipment...
Eugene paused momentarily. His hands clasped the book in his tender touch, opened just enough to reveal the pearl of information hidden inside. His brows were not furrowed in concentration but cocked fractiously towards each other ever so slightly. It was a pause so subtle, so discreet, you might not have noticed it had you not been staring at his eyes, for they stared fixedly at the ink-sodden pages in front of him, looking but not reading. Or at his left leg, frozen in a mid-jitter, the balls of his foot poised carefully at an angle, giving his knee an upward push.
Such minute changes in his body language indicated the droves of spluttering, monstrous machines currently gunning their way around Eugene's fertile brain. Streaks of heavy, dirty green dropping death. Statistics, measurements and armaments clinked into position habitually, allowing his young mind to gobble up the pros and cons of this new particular fighter plane. A process requiring few seconds, for Eugene's memory was like parched land, and pieces of information were like dewy raindrops.
Row upon row of books in neatly arranged stacks encircled the boy's room, giving it the structure of an ancient educational arena of sorts. There was dusty to flawlessly smooth, age-begotten to pages starch white, books as thin as the pencils which wrote them or bulky, as the scholars who voluntarily entrusted volumes of secrets in mutually trusted non-beings.
A sanctuary laden with information regarding typical, common topics; chemistry, technology, history and what not. Warfare linked all subjects into one colossal, complex mechanism. Collections of war books riddled with his long, perusing fingerprints revealed Eugene's passion for the latter; it demanded his constant and undivided attention. He knew them like he knew the rhythm of the screaming siren in the death of the night. Naivety, coupled with a tender age displayed no attempt in thwarting Eugene's insatiable thirst for invaluable knowledge, knowledge which might get his father through the next dogfight. Little Eugene was truly the definition of a budding scholar.
Images of a blood-soaked, wide-eyes, motionless parent staring at him only spurred his never-ending search. They were images which ravaged incessantly his very soul, severing the cockles of his heart and rendering him still, frozen, for lengthy periods of time.
A rustic, roughly-sawed chair and a fortress built by scribes provided Eugene with the haven he so desired. It seemed to be able to resist the ominous Medusa gaze of terrifying thoughts. Temporarily, at least. Eugene's ardour to learn became his own lecturer, although it could never substitute the comfortable images of a father who made sure of his tutorship; a father no longer there.
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Night was torture renewed. Sleep thrived under the cover of dark, feeding on the already depleted energy of those weak enough to succumb to its demands. Countless efforts to forget the unforgettable were brought to shame. It unraveled Eugene's desperate attempts to immerse himself in some arduous activity, until shattered and broken, he too would allow sleep to smother him and fester on his thoughts.
How ironic, that the only way Sleep's vindictive power could be justified teetered treacherously on one condition; a bartering of sorts. Energy for memories.
To Eugene, Sleep was a snake coiled around his mind, with its triangular head poised parallel to his brain. Its forked tongue slithered in and out until its soft, sickening, ticklish touch lulled him into sleep. Thus it squeezed the memories and thoughts out of him. Not the good. Just the bad. Sleep squeezed till he woke up breathless, with a sheen of sweat covering his body as if he had just underwent some strenuous physical activity.
Other, equally sinister methods stood at Sleep's disposal. Like the sudden discovery of wealth, or a courtesan, maybe, awarding you temporary bliss and euphoria. Then you find yourself empty, having spent your last penny. Or in a barren room save for yourself. Vulnerable and reeking of the blessed, almost tangible memories of the time you spent united.
These were Eugene's good dreams. Father still home safe and sound, laughing and kissing his mother as their child protested uproariously for not being the center of attention. A whirlwind of happy wishes and memories imposed upon him by Sleep's overwhelming power. Then he would wake, mouth and eyes stretched harmoniously into a delighted grin. The grin which comes before the striking realisation that happiness was nothing but a dream, the grin which comes before the grief revealing tears.
a very intense read, crackling with tension and extremely vivid, lucid and immersing. Although it could have been clearer at times I suppose it will all be clarified later on in the novel. So far you've succeeded in capturing my interest. A few minor spelling and language mishaps here and there, but the grammar is all correct, so no worries 
I would really appreciate it if you read and maybe reviewed my new piece, just uploaded now - cheers 
