A New Story! Hurray!

December 14, 2011 § 1 Comment

I couldn’t resist starting a comedy. Sorry Ash, but I’ll get to you when I get to you. Right now, I felt like writing something that was funny. Yes, this is the first part of my story for Tanis, tentatively titled Lovers in a Dangerous Time.

A brief reminder of the story guidelines:

Two lovers (gender, species whatever doesn’t matter) who never thought they would be reunited again, actually do reunite against impossible odds.

And with that, enjoy.

Lovers in a Dangerous Time


As the plane fell through the sky, swooping like a gentle dove, albeit one that was made of aluminium and steel and weighed 900,000 pounds, as it plummeted toward the Alps at 299,762.458 km/sec. The screaming of the engines as they burst into flames was muted by the thin aluminium skin and was transmogrified into what sounded curiously like a note played on a trumpet: high and keen, almost victorious in it’s fiery death. Clouds parted for the dying air plane as the 747 hurried to its appointment with the ground. This happened at 07:42:12 PM, CET.

Gravity checked it’s watch, swore, and made a slight adjustment to the rear of the plane. This was enough to tear the bird in two, and the cabin’s pressure was evacuated in a rush of air that, despite present circumstances much to the contrary, felt to the doomed passengers of Ciel Suisse flight 487 like they were flying. Doomed one and all, with the notable exception of Vasily Reshetnikov, who was, currently, almost passed out drunk. When the plane first reported engine “difficulties”, Vasily had procured as many bottles of vodka as his TSA cabin-approved pants could hold. Vasily had flown planes and raised children before, and knew that “difficulties” was a word reserved in order to discipline unruly children or dress down subordinates, not discuss engine trouble in a 900,000lb aluminium tube hurtling through the air at 10,000 feet and 1145 km/h. However, Vasily conceded that “difficulties” had a certain ring that “screaming fiery death” did not. But Vasily’s remarkable survival aside, however much the feeling of weightlessness the passengers were experiencing suggested that they were flying, Gravity assured them that they were not.

They were only experiencing a minor “difficulty” in their falling.

This happened at 07:42:13 PM, CET.

Patrick O’Flanagan stared ahead, wide-eyed, as the air plane soared (or encountered “difficulties”) on its way to imminent destruction. He didn’t think. Not that he couldn’t think. Mr. O’Flanagan of 12 Manor Road, Toronto, Ontario, Canada (Earth. Not that he thought mentioning it was important, because he didn’t, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t; it was), was a good thinker. He thought that Toronto was rubbish at hockey, and he thought that Parliament had their heads up their collective asses, and he thought a great deal about many, many other things. But he didn’t think now, as the wind whipped up around him and tried to lift him out of his seat. Nor did he think a few seconds later as Vasily Reshetnikov began violently vomiting forward which, as Gravity, now checking that watch and “hmmphing” to himself, reminded him, meant that it flew back up at his face.

Vasily, however, did not get as far as he had because he was foolish or slow. Too quick for Gravity to follow, he dodged out of the way of his stomach’s leavings. Poor Irene Dukakis, who really had suffered quite enough for one day, got it right in the face. But all things considered, it was alright because she had passed out long before. This happened at 07:42:15 PM, CET.

No, Patrick didn’t think because he quickly thought “What was the point?” Thinking wasn’t going to grow him wings nor suddenly repair engines. His mind may have been powerful, but it wasn’t strong enough to carry a plane. He didn’t, therefore, think of his family which was currently beside him in seat 32B, nor his friends back home in Canada, nor his life as he had lived it before 07:42:16 PM, CET. Thinking, he thought, would only waste precious energy.

Oh yes, “precious” energy. Which he spent holding his wife’s, one Amira Flanagan né Mehenni, also of 12 Manor Road and so on, hand. He squeezed it, possibly for the last time, because there was literally nothing else in the world he wanted to do before he died. This happened at 07:42:17 PM, CET.

Amira, by contrast, could not stop thinking. The same wind pressed down on her, seeming to push her further and further into her seat. Her mind, trapped at it was beneath her thick black hair, was as restless as a cat. And like most house cats, it wandered about yowling and hissing because it had nothing better to do at the moment than annoy her. She thought about what would happen to the house. She thought about what would happen to her work at Over/Above Design. She thought about her friends, especially Sabrina, at who’s upcoming wedding she would no longer be the maid of honour. But she also thought about the man holding her hand and that if she was going to die now, how happy she was that it was Patrick doing the holding and that there was no-one else she could ever imagine crashing with.

She smiled and squeezed back. This happened at 07:42:18 PM, CET.

The plane fell for another second. From another, just as valid perspective, the ground rushed up to meet it. This happened at 07:42:19 PM, CET.

Patrick’s mind suddenly kicked into action and he said, “Oh crap. I forgot to lock the back door.”

Amira replied. “I forgot to feed the dog.”

Truly, they were made for each other.

Something blinked.

At 07:42:20 PM, CET, Flight CS487 crashed into the Alps around 34km into the Jungfrau-Aletsch Protected Area. It slid down the mountain and came to a stop, quite unexploded, in a small grove of trees nearly buried with snow. The shock tore the wings off like they were made of paper, and the front third disintegrated in a shower of glass and aluminium shards. The engines burst into so many pieces that physics threw up its hands and fumbled the math for the rest of the trajectories. A cloud of snow flew up several dozen feet and lazily drifted down again, already covering pieces of the destroyed vessel.

It was also enough, more than enough, to kill the common adult Homo Sapiens.

The remnants of the plane came to a halt with a tortured crash before caving it upon itself in most places. This happened at 07:42:21 PM, CET.

This was, coincidentally, the last time that time mattered to either Patrick or Amira.


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