My girlfriend’s face is frozen. She’s squeezing my hand like a vise grip. The screeching gets worse. Passengers press call buttons, while flight attendants buzz around like bees willy-nilly, hovering over them. I look out the window. White. Everywhere.
The screeching is deafening, and now blue smoke fills the cabin.
Debbie L. Miller writes from Brooklyn, New York, where she writes short stories, plays, monologues, personal essays, memoir, flash fiction, feature articles, and humor pieces.
When he regained consciousness he was still in the car. A distant voice said, “I can almost reach you.” There was the sound of tearing metal.
“Thank you,” he managed weakly.
The laugh was closer. “You think I’m here to help you? Well, it will be a release. Of sorts.”
Sally cannot draw or paint, so this is what she enjoys doing with her time.
I survived the crash.
“I am alive.”
“I am here. I am okay, I think. Nothing broken…”
I must be pinned down as I cannot turn to look around. The light is dimming.
I see two medics approaching. One says, “Here: we found his head.”
The light goes out.
Gary writes poems, short stories, and novels. Some can be found on his Scribophile account, others on his somewhat neglected Tumblr.
“It’s the wrong way ’round!” the Captain yelled.
“Sorry Cap,” Piper replied.
“Too late to worry now. Like a whiskey, Piper?”
“Would love one, Sir. How much time do we have to drink it?”
The captain looked at his timepiece and softly said, “About two minutes to impact. Drink up!”
Connell Wayne Regner had successfully avoided writing creatively since he wrote spontaneous lyrics to music many years ago. Although from a linguistic background, he has serendipitously succumbed to fiction after spontaneously creating bedtime stories for his children. His other dabblings can be found at paragraphplanet and wtdmagazine.wordpress.com.
Jim’s wounds had clotted. His hair was matted with dried blood. His lips were dry and split, indicating he’d been lying there for a while. He could see his car up the hill, wrapped around the tree.
Even after all the pain, Jim still thought his tweet was worth it.
Keith is a rugged outdoors-man and avid sealclubber-clubber. He hails from a higher dimension where time and space hold no sway over Keith’s majestic infinity.
I covered my ears and cried, “What’s going on?”
I shut my eyes and shouted, “What are you doing?!”
I clenched my teeth together and grunted, “Stop, please! You’re frightening me!”
He said, “Look, you asked me to demonstrate what onomatopoeia was, and that’s what I’m doing.”
When they finally landed, they knew their plane would never fly again.
They gathered driftwood and heaped it into teepee-like piles. “These are not for cooking or warmth,” the captain said. “They are beacons.”
He hoarded the matches for weeks and used the last of them to signal the rescuers.