He was pushed from the plane and his mind screams at the unfairness of it all.
The roaring wind penetrates cold while gravity grabs him by the balls and squeezes tight. His shirt flutters mad. His eyes water and his bare-feet clench hard and painful and the nails of his hands bite into the flesh of his palms.
How many people get to think about their murder as they are being murdered, he wonders.
He tries to breathe, but the air hits hard and his adrenaline races too fast and he wonders why it even matters.
The biggest issue is he has time to think. Play with the idea of his reality for a while.
He is falling.
That’s pretty much it.
He is falling.
But he is not dead yet. He wrestles with the idea of this. But there is no hope in that. There will be no branches to scramble for, or use in bracing for impact to prevent it from become not true.
The happy fact is; it is in fact not possible, if he had already struck land, to be falling. Hamlet said it best; to be, or not to be and soon he wont be, but he is, so that’s good.
Maybe he can make his existence stretch on forever by denying death is possible.
Maybe death can only happen if he allows it to.
He closes his eyes away from the vision of the rapidly approaching Earth and deny’s death’s potential.
Then he wakes in exquisite fiery white pain realizing too late death too serves a purpose and is sometimes preferable to living.
The place is on the water. It has little umbrellas that have frayed in the wind. The fresh salty air from the gulf can’t penetrate the smells of stale beer and greasy food that surround the plywood structure like a fugue.
Gulls circle looking for morsels of food. With protesting squawks they fly off when the big bikes roar into the parking lot. The leather-dressed men smell of piss, shit and vomit. They have long greasy hair and beards. They wear dark glasses and scowls. They step off loud machines onto sun bleached cement stained with blood and violence.
One after another they park until twenty bikes are lined up.
When the last one enters the dive bar the door closes after him and the music inside kicks off and the gulls return to search for food.
The old orc stands, turning milky-blind eyes toward the intruder. He wrinkles his nose smelling the air.
“Do I know you human?’ he snarls. ‘Have I tasted your blood?”
The epic of the knight’s life has lead him here.
“Speak!” Grunk takes a step, a withered left leg fails him. His ancient face scrunches in pain. He leans heavily on a wicked club spiked with nails rusted deep-red. “Why do you come?”
Ser Gerald pulls a long-sharp-gleaming blade from its scabbard. ‘I seek revenge, gray-one.”
“Good. I am ready.”
The knight charges.
Soon enough Grunk returns to his fire, victorious
The tour guide stops and sighs, “this is one of my favorite exhibits in the entire museum.
You’ll notice there’s an actual outside beyond that window. It’s not just a picture, this little girl’s bedroom overlooked Broadway and Sixty-Sixth street. If you listen carefully there is a soundtrack playing of long ago New York City. Do you hear the traffic and the sirens? My favorite part is coming up. There it is! A horn honk… and a crash… then two men arguing. That is an actual recording of a minor auto accident.
Oh, what a world to have lived in.
The toys and furniture are all made out of natural elements like wood and actual cotton and wool.”
“Was this child rich?” a little girl with purple hair interrupts.
“Not even.” In early 21st century all of these things could be made by hand, or even store bought. No 3D printing was even needed.”
Thursday photo prompt – Child – #writephoto
With a deep bellow the mountain raises and the Earth shakes. The ground is torn. Large roots and rocks pour from the being’s undercarriage. It moves its head, swiveling it from side to side, its mouth opening and closing, bits of stone chipping off its gnashing teeth, crashing into the forest below as its tongue attempts to work a word. Yellow eyes glow bright in the gloom searching for the one who called.
“Mother!” The twenty-billion-tonne creature bellows.
Mother stands in a small flowered glen in urine soaked garments.
The book worked.
“Come,” she stutters unsure, but her progeny obeys.
The hum of industrial strength air-conditioning keeps the insane summer heat at bay.
Tristram sweats anyway. He needs this sale and has been nervous all morning for a meeting that seems to be over before it really got started.
“These cups are 100% biodegradable, fossil-footprint responsible.”
“Can you beat a thousand for seventy-eight,” The fat-manager with a shiny pink scalp, dressed in an over starched white oxford-button down, asks with a smirk. His little name badge, hanging from the tip of a monstrous left tit, says assistant-manager.
It might as well say gatekeeper.
Tristram dips his chin and shakes his head no.
The fat-man laughs derisively, turns from the table he did not even sit down at and walks away with his pants riding up into his buttcrack.
Tristam curses, wishing his brother-in-law had never convinced him to invest in his paper-cup business.
He stands to make his next appointment across town, his thoughts returning to the idea of an insurance scam.
A slip and fall.
A nice little warehouse fire.
Suicide by cop.
FFfAW Challenge-Week of April 25, 2017
She puts the black heels with the ribbon lace up next to the ancient copy of the Oxford dictionary her grandfather bought her.
The dictionary smells of thrift store.
Dusty and used.
Since her grandfather died it reminds her of him.
She put the shoes next to the giant heavy book, because one day she might wear them. They make her look tall. They give her legs a shape she assumes men might enjoy. Maybe she won’t shirk from the attention if it’s the right type of guy.
Maybe, like one day she might start her novel.