Members
22/F
Poet, notorious bibliophile, proud nerd, future neuroscientist, musician, Autistic Self Advocate
26/F/Malaysia
black ink on a dark page
The Void
This is a new start
Poems
Grahame Jun 2014
ANGEL'S DELIGHT
Grahame
Jun 2014
A beautiful angel, sitting on a cloud,
softly playing her harp,
Was suddenly frit by a noise so loud,
and hit by something sharp.
It’s Concorde, travelling faster than sound,
that is so very sharp,
The angel tumbles towards the ground,
while Concorde flies off with the harp.
She thinks, “No longer shall I sing
while on a cloud I’m sat,
That flying machine has broken my wing,
I’m falling fast, and that’s that!”
The wing though’s, not broken, and causes no pain,
so she thinks, just to feathers, is damage,
However, she tries to fly in vain,
it’s something she just cannot manage.
By spreading her wings slightly she manages to steer,
and thus, stops spinning around,
She is greatly filled with fear,
and still falling towards the ground.
And then, far below, she spies a small plane,
climbing into the sky,
The sight causes her some hope to gain,
and towards it she tries to fly.
“If I can land on the plane,” thinks she,
“that’s grand, cos my fall it will stop,
I might be able to ride it down safely,
and when it’s landed, off it can hop.”
She glides down, the plane flies higher,
and about halfway they meet ,
And though, for a moment, things seem dire,
she grabs on tight, and makes it her seat.
She sits there, astride the plane,
waiting for her panic to subside,
And realises, as plain as plain,
she’s in for a bumpy ride.
Then the plane levels out, her heart calms down,
and things are looking better,
She smooths out her lily-white gown,
and thinks, “Today’s one for a red letter!”
And then she hears a clunking noise,
a door is opened wide,
“Oh no!” she thinks, nearly losing her poise,
“There must be people inside.”
Inside the plane, the pilot had fretted,
he’d felt it pitch and yaw,
And though its balance had been upsetted,
he’d straightened it out once more.
By skydivers, chartered plane had been,
they’d all jumped out, except one,
They were experienced, she was green,
and now she was left all alone.
She’d thought that she should exit last,
’cause she’d never jumped before,
And her static line she’d made fast,
and followed the others to the door.
The door had been opened, they’d got ready to jump,
and finally it was her turn to go,
Then something had caused the plane to bump,
and the door had swung, and closed to.
The pilot had struggled to regain control,
he’d used the joystick and rudder,
The plane had pitched and tried to roll,
then yawed, and finally did shudder.
Eventually, the plane had been levelled out,
and the lone skydiver was shaken,
“Do you still want to jump?” the pilot did shout,
She’d said, “Yes,” though she was mistaken.
When the plane had tossed, she’d banged her head,
and blacked out for a while,
So she should have stayed in the plane, instead
she thought she’d jump out with style.
She opened the door, and fastened it back,
her training however, had slipped
She didn’t realise her static line was now slack,
no longer safely clipped.
She got to the door, and outside leant,
and looked down at the ground,
Then blacked out again, which unfortunately meant
she fell out, and was earthwards bound.
The angel was still sitting on top,
starting to enjoy the flight,
Then, seeing the girl from the doorway flop,
realised that all was not right.
The girl was spinning around and around,
and falling out of control,
She rapidly fell, not making a sound,
she’d be lucky to get down whole.
The angel now knew something was wrong,
and that something right had to be done,
So she threw herself from the plane, headlong,
knowing that she was the one
Who had to help, or the girl might die,
so she tucked back her wings, to go faster,
The girl was in peril, so she had to try,
even though it might end in disaster.
Like a stooping hawk, down she did hurl,
cutting through the air,
Rapidly closing up to the girl,
until, she got to where
She realised she had to be,
right underneath the skydiver,
Correctly placed, just where she,
the proper aid could give her.
She rolled herself over, her wings she spread out,
the right trajectory she had guessed,
Then caught the girl, the waist about,
and drew her to her breast.
By now they had neared to the ground,
there was no time the ’chute to release,
And the angel kept her arms tight around,
the girl, her rescue she would not cease.
And dropping, with her back to the ground,
with the girl held tight on top,
She sensed a large hand, around them wound,
and their downwards plummet stop.
They were gently lowered to the mold,
and laid there, side by side,
The skydiver was still out cold,
the angel’s eyes opened wide,
Because, as she lay in that place,
a mighty presence seemed
To be looking down on her with grace,
and around her, angels teemed.
It was then she swooned, and knew no more,
until she woke up in a bed,
And to her surprise, on looking up, saw
no halo was over her head.
A nurse sitting close by her bedside,
smiled at her and said,
“You’re really lucky to be alive,
and so’s your friend, who’s in the next bed.”
Just then the ward door opened wide,
and four people clattered in,
They stood around the skydiver’s bedside,
and made an awful din.
“Tell us what happened up there, in the plane,”
the angel heard one of them say,
“I really do not know how to explain,
or what actually happened that day.”
The girl continued, “I was ready to go,
when the plane seemed to receive a bump,
And then I thought, everything’s ok, so,
I decided to make the jump.
I do remember opening the door,
and looking down at the ground,
And then, I remember nothing more,
’til I woke up here, safe and sound.”
One of the crowd said, “You gave us a fright,
you came out of the plane, spinning round,
Of your parachute, there was no sight,
we were sure you’d crash into the ground.”
Another one said, “Something else wasn’t right,
we were certain that your ’chute was red,
Then one seemed to appear, that was lily-white,
which broke your fall instead.”
A third one spoke, “And another thing,
which I just can’t get out of my head,
It seemed as though I heard angels sing,
as I ran over, to check you weren’t dead.”
Finally, the fourth one said,
“And my mind’s still in a whirl,
We saw that not only weren’t you dead,
lying next to you was a girl,
Your parachute hadn’t opened, and
of the white one, there was no sign,
Though the girl by your side was holding your hand,
and wore a white dress of archaic design.”
Then all of them chattered together,
until the nurse made them leave.
The angel and girl looked at each other,
neither knowing what to believe.
Meanwhile, the Concorde had come in to land,
and when it had rolled to a stop,
The ground staff simply could not understand,
what, off its nose, they’d seen drop.
Things falling off planes can be serious,
so they got over there pretty sharp,
And then, they thought they were delirious,
cos, what had dropped off was a harp.
And a label, tied tightly to it was,
with a message upon it inscribed,
Send it to the hospital of St. Thomas,
the owner’s recovering inside.
The girl, to the angel, held her hand out,
and giving her a fond glance,
Said, “I’m really glad you were there about,
we don’t often get a second chance.”
*Grahame Upham
3rd January 2014.
softly playing her harp,
Was suddenly frit by a noise so loud,
and hit by something sharp.
It’s Concorde, travelling faster than sound,
that is so very sharp,
The angel tumbles towards the ground,
while Concorde flies off with the harp.
She thinks, “No longer shall I sing
while on a cloud I’m sat,
That flying machine has broken my wing,
I’m falling fast, and that’s that!”
The wing though’s, not broken, and causes no pain,
so she thinks, just to feathers, is damage,
However, she tries to fly in vain,
it’s something she just cannot manage.
By spreading her wings slightly she manages to steer,
and thus, stops spinning around,
She is greatly filled with fear,
and still falling towards the ground.
And then, far below, she spies a small plane,
climbing into the sky,
The sight causes her some hope to gain,
and towards it she tries to fly.
“If I can land on the plane,” thinks she,
“that’s grand, cos my fall it will stop,
I might be able to ride it down safely,
and when it’s landed, off it can hop.”
She glides down, the plane flies higher,
and about halfway they meet ,
And though, for a moment, things seem dire,
she grabs on tight, and makes it her seat.
She sits there, astride the plane,
waiting for her panic to subside,
And realises, as plain as plain,
she’s in for a bumpy ride.
Then the plane levels out, her heart calms down,
and things are looking better,
She smooths out her lily-white gown,
and thinks, “Today’s one for a red letter!”
And then she hears a clunking noise,
a door is opened wide,
“Oh no!” she thinks, nearly losing her poise,
“There must be people inside.”
Inside the plane, the pilot had fretted,
he’d felt it pitch and yaw,
And though its balance had been upsetted,
he’d straightened it out once more.
By skydivers, chartered plane had been,
they’d all jumped out, except one,
They were experienced, she was green,
and now she was left all alone.
She’d thought that she should exit last,
’cause she’d never jumped before,
And her static line she’d made fast,
and followed the others to the door.
The door had been opened, they’d got ready to jump,
and finally it was her turn to go,
Then something had caused the plane to bump,
and the door had swung, and closed to.
The pilot had struggled to regain control,
he’d used the joystick and rudder,
The plane had pitched and tried to roll,
then yawed, and finally did shudder.
Eventually, the plane had been levelled out,
and the lone skydiver was shaken,
“Do you still want to jump?” the pilot did shout,
She’d said, “Yes,” though she was mistaken.
When the plane had tossed, she’d banged her head,
and blacked out for a while,
So she should have stayed in the plane, instead
she thought she’d jump out with style.
She opened the door, and fastened it back,
her training however, had slipped
She didn’t realise her static line was now slack,
no longer safely clipped.
She got to the door, and outside leant,
and looked down at the ground,
Then blacked out again, which unfortunately meant
she fell out, and was earthwards bound.
The angel was still sitting on top,
starting to enjoy the flight,
Then, seeing the girl from the doorway flop,
realised that all was not right.
The girl was spinning around and around,
and falling out of control,
She rapidly fell, not making a sound,
she’d be lucky to get down whole.
The angel now knew something was wrong,
and that something right had to be done,
So she threw herself from the plane, headlong,
knowing that she was the one
Who had to help, or the girl might die,
so she tucked back her wings, to go faster,
The girl was in peril, so she had to try,
even though it might end in disaster.
Like a stooping hawk, down she did hurl,
cutting through the air,
Rapidly closing up to the girl,
until, she got to where
She realised she had to be,
right underneath the skydiver,
Correctly placed, just where she,
the proper aid could give her.
She rolled herself over, her wings she spread out,
the right trajectory she had guessed,
Then caught the girl, the waist about,
and drew her to her breast.
By now they had neared to the ground,
there was no time the ’chute to release,
And the angel kept her arms tight around,
the girl, her rescue she would not cease.
And dropping, with her back to the ground,
with the girl held tight on top,
She sensed a large hand, around them wound,
and their downwards plummet stop.
They were gently lowered to the mold,
and laid there, side by side,
The skydiver was still out cold,
the angel’s eyes opened wide,
Because, as she lay in that place,
a mighty presence seemed
To be looking down on her with grace,
and around her, angels teemed.
It was then she swooned, and knew no more,
until she woke up in a bed,
And to her surprise, on looking up, saw
no halo was over her head.
A nurse sitting close by her bedside,
smiled at her and said,
“You’re really lucky to be alive,
and so’s your friend, who’s in the next bed.”
Just then the ward door opened wide,
and four people clattered in,
They stood around the skydiver’s bedside,
and made an awful din.
“Tell us what happened up there, in the plane,”
the angel heard one of them say,
“I really do not know how to explain,
or what actually happened that day.”
The girl continued, “I was ready to go,
when the plane seemed to receive a bump,
And then I thought, everything’s ok, so,
I decided to make the jump.
I do remember opening the door,
and looking down at the ground,
And then, I remember nothing more,
’til I woke up here, safe and sound.”
One of the crowd said, “You gave us a fright,
you came out of the plane, spinning round,
Of your parachute, there was no sight,
we were sure you’d crash into the ground.”
Another one said, “Something else wasn’t right,
we were certain that your ’chute was red,
Then one seemed to appear, that was lily-white,
which broke your fall instead.”
A third one spoke, “And another thing,
which I just can’t get out of my head,
It seemed as though I heard angels sing,
as I ran over, to check you weren’t dead.”
Finally, the fourth one said,
“And my mind’s still in a whirl,
We saw that not only weren’t you dead,
lying next to you was a girl,
Your parachute hadn’t opened, and
of the white one, there was no sign,
Though the girl by your side was holding your hand,
and wore a white dress of archaic design.”
Then all of them chattered together,
until the nurse made them leave.
The angel and girl looked at each other,
neither knowing what to believe.
Meanwhile, the Concorde had come in to land,
and when it had rolled to a stop,
The ground staff simply could not understand,
what, off its nose, they’d seen drop.
Things falling off planes can be serious,
so they got over there pretty sharp,
And then, they thought they were delirious,
cos, what had dropped off was a harp.
And a label, tied tightly to it was,
with a message upon it inscribed,
Send it to the hospital of St. Thomas,
the owner’s recovering inside.
The girl, to the angel, held her hand out,
and giving her a fond glance,
Said, “I’m really glad you were there about,
we don’t often get a second chance.”
*Grahame Upham
3rd January 2014.
Bruce Adams Sep 2023
Saccades
Bruce Adams
Sep 2023
A text for five voices.
Note on text: For formatting reasons, this should be read on a full screen, or in landscape mode on a mobile.
i. Blank copy
I look out of the window at
the houses as they pass and they
don’t so much slide past
or glide past
the motion isn’t smooth.
They sort of click past.
They tick past, dit-dit-dit:
House after house after house after house
dit-dit-dit-dit-dit
My eyes don’t quite refresh the image fast enough
to keep up with all the houses
as they pass.
It’s 10 o’clock when I arrive at my office
and no-one is there yet
and I turn on my computer.
I sort of just
sit there
for quite a long time. Then
at 10.37 I print a document I’ve been working on
and I pick up my mug and I go to the kitchen where the printer is
and I put the kettle on.
I log on to the printer but instead of pressing
Print
I press
Copy
instead.
The machine whirs
The light goes
across
And out comes this copy this
Copy of
nothing.
I pick it up from the cradle.
It’s warm.
And I hold it and I look at it and I think:
This is a copy
of nothing.
And since it is no longer an empty piece of paper but now
something more
something
imbued
I don’t put it back in the paper tray
and I don’t put it in the bin.
I carry it carefully with my tea back
to my office and put it
Carefully
on my desk.
I close the door.
Usually when I arrive and no-one is there I keep the door open for a bit.
It’s my way of letting people know I’m here.
It also helps me get a sense of what’s going on in the building
which students are there and what they’re doing
and once I’ve got a decent enough idea
or if there’s someone around I don’t really feel like helping
I close the door.
Today it is quiet.
It is a Friday.
Fridays are quiet.
It is the seventh of March.
It is 2014.
I’m looking out of the window as I recall
without much interest
that yesterday was my father’s sixty-first birthday.
The buses tick past the window.
Without really thinking I
roll down the blind
Until the window is as blank as my copy of
nothing.
I look at it but I
don’t
sit
down
yet.
My computer makes a noise and a purple box
tells me I have a meeting in thirty minutes.
Oh shut up I tell it
out loud.
Now I realise that I never did print my document
so I go back to the printer and the file is still there waiting for me
and I press Print All
and out it comes
and the piece of paper looks
Obnoxious
scrawled over in heavy black print
and ****** coloured columns
and smelling
Smelling of toner.
For someone who claims to be conscious of the environment I
print excessively. But only at work.
It’s the combination of it being free
(or at least, no cost to me)
and that feeling you get when you
swipe
your access card to log in to the printer
and tap the screen dit-dit-dit to choose this or that.
It feels
to me
like being a grown-up.
It’s intoxicating.
I don’t want to go to the meeting
and I’m suddenly annoyed by this ***** piece of paper
which
I ***** up
and throw in the bin.
**** it.
Not even in the recycling.
**** it.
Who cares.
What difference could it possibly make
whether I throw this piece of paper
which I will now have to print again
in the black part of the bin for waste
or the green part of the bin for recycling.
I go back to my computer and press Print but
this time
I keep clicking my mouse
ditditditditditditditditditditditditdit
Yeah.
ditditditditditditditditditditditditdit
ditditditditditditditditditditditditdit
And I go back to the printer and the name of the document comes up on the built-in screen
dozens and dozens of times
the same name of the same document
and I tap
Print All.
And as the machine spits out clone after clone I
mutter under my breath:
**** it.
Yeah.
Then out loud:
**** it.
Yeah.
And as I throw them in the bin and go back for more I think
I’m going to buy a car. Yeah.
And I’m going to drive my car to work and
when I finish work I’m going to drive it
to a big supermarket
a hypermarket
a super hyper mega market
where I will buy and buy and buy,
and on my way home I will buy petrol to put in my car
And I will go on holiday
I will book all those last minute deals on the internet
And go to Turkey or Lanzarote or Corfu for a hundred
or a couple of hundred
pounds, every month maybe
And I’ll fly there on a big plane.
I’ll soar over the ocean on a big plane.
And when I come back
I’ll soar over all those people outside Stansted Airport
All those
people
With banners
Moaning and complaining and protesting
Banners saying things like
I don’t know
“Down with planes”
And as the flight attendant smiles goodbye I’ll think
yeah.
Down with planes.
And I’ll drive my car home and I will
stop
worrying
about
everything.
I go back to my office.
I retrieve one copy of my document from the bin and I
put it on top of my copy of nothing.
Whereas before the document offended me
now I have difficulty
telling the difference between the two.
My colleague arrives and she tells me about the motorway.
She’s always telling me about the motorway.
I think about my car I’m going to buy and I
think about being on the motorway.
I think about being on that part of the M25
where the planes are so low you duck as they thunder over you
and they come
in rapid succession
dit dit dit
rapid eye movement
radar.
I think about being stuck in traffic there and the air
thick with exhaust fumes
mixing with the air around Heathrow
and all those tons of jet fuel from the planes zooming over
Blink and you miss them
but always another follows.
I go to my meeting.
I realise that I have picked up my blank copy
along with the document I printed for the meeting.
Someone says they wish I’d printed more than one copy
as it turns out it would be useful for everyone to have one
and I laugh in their face without explaining myself.
I make notes on it.
My copy of nothing.
Without really realising
I’ve scribbled notes on it
but as I look at my spidery black biro handwriting
and think with some real despair about how I have mindlessly
destroyed
something pure
the notes
disappear
into the paper
and it is clean again.
ii. Ringing sea
My eyes don’t quite refresh the image fast enough.
What I’m looking at
my rational brain tells me
is a video of two people having ***.
I have seen that before.
But what I’m actually watching is a video of
my husband
having ***
with another woman.
And my eyes don’t refresh the image fast enough
So I keep seeing his face.
The whole picture melts away and
I just see his face
Which belongs to me.
It’s my face. I – own it.
It’s my- my- my-
And it freezes there
just his face is all I can see then the video continues for a
split second then freezes again
His face
His face
His face It’s him
It’s him
It’s him.
I stop the video and I put the phone down on the table
and I breathe very deeply and
every time I blink, between every saccade
there is his face
a face I know intimately
and it’s looking away from me.
I turn on the television. It is Saturday.
He is flying back from Asia on Tuesday. I have until then to
what?
The sound and light from the television
flicker over me
And I sort of just empty,
Quietly, like a balloon disappearing into the sky.
I don’t know what I’m going to do but
for now that’s
fine.
The brown armchair swallows me up
and I cry for two hours without really noticing.
The cookery programme I’m not watching finishes and I think
the news is about to come on so I turn off the TV
and I put on my shoes
and I go down the stairs and out of the house
and I get in my car.
It’s raining and I just sit there.
Without starting the engine I flick on the windscreen wipers:
Dit / dit.
Dit \ dit.
Dit / dit.
It takes less than three seconds for them to pass
from one side of the windscreen to the other.
And I get this feeling this
unexplainable feeling
that I want to crawl inside that moment
when the wipers are moving from one side of the screen
to the other.
I flip down the sun shield and look at myself in the mirror.
There are two lipsticks in the glove compartment.
I pick the darker one
and apply it
carefully
sensually.
I start the car.
West London ebbs away to the motorway
My car is silver and in the rain it feels invisible
I don’t know where I’m going
I follow words on signposts I recognise the shape of
without really reading them
and I keep driving
I let my eyes come away from the road and
watch the fields and trees tick past like cells of film
and I look at the cars on the other carriageway
and I notice they’re all silver like mine
(only mine is invisible)
and I duck as a Boeing 777 soars over near the M4 interchange
and let myself scream soundlessly under the roar of its engines.
I wonder where it came from.
I think about the people on board.
I think about their mobile phones and
all the ******* there must be on them
and I realise
how many videos there must be in the world
of people having ***.
I take the M23 past Gatwick Airport
the motorway ends but I keep driving
until finally I come to the sea.
No-one is here because it’s March and it’s raining.
I have always loved the sea.
Not sailing or swimming or surfing
Just being near it, for me it’s
a spiritual experience.
I’ll lie on the stones and gaze at the sky for hours
but not today.
There are some flowers tied to a railing
somebody has drowned.
Presumably they never found a body to bury.
The awfulness of that strikes me like a stone.
It’s the not knowing.
The lack of 100% concrete total proof.
I take my phone out of my handbag.
But I know now.
The shingle crunches underneath my flat shoes.
Now I know.
The cold burns my ears and the wind picks up as I get closer to the water
the tide slips serpentine up the stones
white-edged
beckoning me.
Without realising I’ve slipped
out of
my shoes
but the stones do not hurt my coarse feet
and the wind
howling now
catches me behind my knees
quickening my stride.
The spit curls around my toes.
And then I catch myself wondering
whether my husband will call me or
text me when he lands
and I hurl
my phone
into the sea.
On the drive home I listen to the radio.
The news is dominated by the Crimean conflict
and the referendum that’s coming up there.
Florence Nightingale
is all I can think about when they talk about Crimea.
Until recently I never even knew where it was.
At school you only learn about Florence Nightingale
not the geography
not the conflicts
not Ukraine’s edges so charred by
invasion and,
subsequently,
explosion.
We live in so many war zones.
and I’m wondering what else I never learned about when
the story changes and now they are talking about a plane.
A plane is missing
between Kuala Lumpur and Beijing
and the blood drains out of me.
It isn’t like floating away like a balloon this time
it’s like plunging off a cliff.
And at once I see
with brilliant, burning clarity
my phone, ringing, on the sea bed
The light from the screen illuminates the stormy water but
I can’t see the name:
I can’t see who’s calling.
I need to know.
I need to know it’s him.
I drive back at twice the speed limit.
In the dark the flowers look menacing and half-dead; my
shoes fall off in the same place
But the tide is in so the whole beach looks different.
I’m up to my waist but my
top half
is as wet
as my bottom half
because the rain
is torrential
and I can still hear the phone ringing
but I can’t see the light in the sea.
and I howl
his name
but the wind carries it away soundlessly
and I can’t tell if I’m
further out
or if the tide’s further in
and the ringing grows louder
as the current takes me powerfully by the waist and
the stars rush by overhead.
iii. Acid rain
Every time I blink, between every saccade I see
a brilliant but infinitesimally brief flash of colour.
Purple
or green
I think.
One on top of the other.
It’s hard to tell for sure because they’re so brief.
It’s like when you look at a light bulb for too long
or stare directly at the sun.
I see it sometimes when I’m on my bike
or on a really big rollercoaster
going downhill at 100 miles an hour
the wind blasting through me
the screams whirling through the air.
But I’m not on a rollercoaster, I’m sat very still
it’s Monday afternoon and I’m at school.
I haven’t said a single word to a single person today.
I didn’t even answer my name in the register.
I feel a bit dizzy like
everything is turning together
but I’m on a different
axis?
I think the bell goes, I’m
not a hundred percent sure,
but I leave anyway and no-one stops me.
Outside in the sunshine the flashes of colour are
several thousand times brighter.
In the next lesson I slip in my earbuds and
it looks like the teacher is singing the words.
I put on the most obscene song I can find.
I must have it on too loud
because eventually she notices and
she forces me to give her the headphones. This is the first time
someone has spoken to me today
it feels a bit surreal
but the world stops spinning
a bit.
After school I go into the supermarket on Wigmore Lane
the enormous white of it is tinged in green and purple
and all I want is to buy a drink
I have a feeling of exactly the kind of drink I want
but I can’t find the right one
even though the fridge must be longer than
the driveway of my house.
Racks of newspapers and magazines clamour for my attention
the only real colour in this great white warehouse of a store
red tops and blue spreads
and green and purple and green and purple
and green and purple…
They’re talking about that missing plane in the news
and they keep using the same phrase.
They’re talking about the people on board the missing plane
and they keep saying
Missing
presumed dead.
Not dead dead. Presumed dead.
I start wondering what it’s like to be both dead and alive at the same time,
as if all the people on board that plane are like Schrödinger’s cat
(cats)
and we won’t know whether they’re dead or alive until we find the plane
and pull it out of the sea
and look inside
so
until then
they’re both.
Out in the car park I count the planes as they descend onto
the runway less than a mile away.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight,
I figure about a hundred and eighty a plane maybe,
which means fifteen hundred people just arrived in Luton.
Nobody comes to Luton for the scenery.
Soon they’ll be gone,
A town haunted by a ghost population of thousands an hour.
filtered onto the trains and buses
and out from the sprawling car parks
to the motorway, and
onto connecting flights back into Europe
but none of them will stay in Luton
Missing
presumed dead.
As I bike through Luton I think it might not be so strange to be dead and alive at the same time.
I’ve lived here my whole life and the whole place
which is a *******
moves with the mundanity of machinery
like the big car factories by the airport
the lights on, the production lines rolling
but all a bit automatic and lifeless.
But in the airport, it’s different.
The air, with its artificial chill, hangs with a faint shimmer
and the people here move purposefully, and with charge
excitedly
or dejectedly
but not neutrally
heading for the gates where they are sealed two hundred a time into airtight tubes
like Schrödinger’s cat:
dead and alive in the air;
one or the other on the ground.
My teachers say I have an
“odd way of looking at things”.
I leave my bike outside without chaining it up and go into the terminal.
In a café in the check-in hall I find exactly the drink I want
and I pay £2.75 for it.
I look at the departure boards.
Edinburgh. Bonn. Marseilles.
A green light flashes next to each gate as it opens
green and purple
green and purple
Missing
presumed dead
The flashes of colour are growing brighter
every time I move my eyes a green and purple streak follows behind like a jet stream
but the bustle and activity of the airport is so much that I can’t keep my eyes still
so they keep darting
this way and that
until my vision is painted over
green and purple.
The streaks roll over each other like clouds of acid rain.
This is the final call for flight 370 to–
My bike is gone when I go back outside
The front of the terminal is a plateau of thousands upon thousands of cars
and it’s probably in one of them
but I’ll never know which.
The car parks reach all the way back to the runway.
Green and purple acid rain from all the jet fuel mixed with the air
melts a hole in the fence and I slip through
moving purposefully
with charge
across the green and purple grass
scorched by a hundred thousand landings
a hundred thousand people arriving in Luton
And there on the tarmac
glinting in the rain
surrounded by blinking amber
there is my bike
its black handlebars spread like the wings of a jet plane.
I duck as an Airbus screams in just a few feet over my head
the rush from the engine lifting the soles of my feet from the ground.
I pick up the bike and start pedalling
pedalling down the runway
pedalling towards the blinking amber.
It feels light, nimble, fast
the tyres take the asphalt with ease.
And the faster I go the lighter I feel
the acid rain eats away at my clothes
and they melt off my body and pool on the runway below,
Lighter
and lighter until…
The wheels lift away from the ground
and in the air I am dead and alive
and maybe nobody will
ever
see me
again.
iv. Burning sky
The faster I go, the lighter I feel.
I’ve taken the night watch and the yacht
is cruising across the Indian Ocean
penetrating the black abyss like a white bullet
and the lights in the portholes send shimmering white bullet shapes
for miles across the endless ink.
What?
We’re not going very fast at all
But it feels like any minute
we might drop off the edge of the world.
I hope we do.
I feel light and dizzy and irrational
and I feel aware of being
light and dizzy and irrational
and I wonder if this is what going mad feels like.
Have you ever felt like you’re living in a corner of your own life?
I
feel like that a lot lately.
Marc is sleeping.
We didn’t speak much today.
I can’t really remember how long it’s been
since we left Victoria but the fight
we had there
in a bistro by the port we
said things we
said things that
we can’t take back.
The Seychelles were stifling.
The heat was stifling.
He was stifling.
And the people were stifling
the people kept talking about pirates.
They kept warning us about pirates.
You’re sailing where
they say
You must be careful
they say
It’s notorious
they say
I have fantasies about being kidnapped by pirates.
Not stupid Johnny Depp pirates with *** and parrots, no
Real pirates.
Nasty pirates.
With dark snarls and AK-47s.
When we were at sea off the Horn I’d see things on the horizon
Dots or lights I couldn’t make out
And I’d imagine the rifle against my neck
Their hot breath
Chains and ransoms.
I’d wonder how much we’d be worth.
If we’d make national news.
Would it be David Cameron to announce,
regrettably,
we don’t negotiate with pirates,
or would it be someone less important?
Maybe just the foreign secretary.
What is the worth of my life at the end of a steel barrel?
But it would only be a buoy, or a plane on the horizon,
and I would get into bed with Marc
disappearing under the covers like a different kind of hostage.
I
oh
I
Sorry
I’m crying.
I don’t know when I started crying.
The thing is I don’t know if it’s me breaking the marriage
or the marriage breaking me.
I’m watching everything literally fall to pieces and for all I know
it’s me with the detonator.
And then
everything
literally falls to pieces
My mug of coffee falls from my hand
shatters on the deck
and the sea rears up nightmarishly.
Above me
a long orange **** of flame
is burned into the sky.
No, really.
That’s not a metaphor.
There is fire in the sky.
It’s about a mile up and a mile away.
Look.
There.
****.
**** **** ****.
What is that?
Marc!
I call for Marc.
Marc!
There is fire in the sky.
– Katherine.
Fire in the sky.
Fire in the
Fire in
– Katherine.
Fire
– Katherine.
What
Marc, what?
– Are you awake?
I think so.
– You were calling out again.
Calling
– Calling out. You were shouting.
What
where
What time is it?
Where
– Dubai. We’re in Dubai. It’s 7.
They delayed again while you were sleeping.
Dubai?
– Katy I really think you should see a doctor.
Don’t call me that.
– Pardon?
Katy.
Don’t call me that.
Like
– Like what?
Everything’s okay.
–
Everything’s not okay.
– There’s
doctors. You’re not well. You’ve been confused since,
well actually since before it even happened.
You think I’ve been confused.
– Not right.
Not you.
You’re **** right.
– Forget it.
Thank you.
– Go back to sleep. ****.
– Are you still seeing it?
The plane? On fire.
You’re dreaming about it, aren’t you?
Yes.
– It’s affecting you?
I’m
just
unhappy,
Marc.
– That’s not just it though is it?
What’s that supposed to mean?
– Something about seeing that
plane has scared you.
We don’t know it was the plane.
The one that –
– No. But, right place, right time.
They said
Maybe.
– It’s still a coincidence.
It’s not
What
– A sign.
From god.
Or
whatever.
Whatever you think it means.
Katherine.
The thing I don’t know, Marc
is if I’m more scared that it was the plane
or that it wasn’t.
–
Imagine.
Vanishing.
Into thin air.
– I know.
No, you don’t.
Disappearing
into thin air
Or falling
out of it.
– Falling.
You can’t imagine that.
– I can.
– I can, Katy.
I ******* can
Imagine.
Falling.
Disappearing.
Into thin air.
*******
invisible.
I am
right
******* here,
Katherine.
I see you.
I see you Marc.
But you’re not
solid.
I’m not
solid.
See?
It passes
right through.
Now you see me.
Now yo–
v. 2015
Have you ever felt like you’re living in a corner of your own life?
The hotel room here in Singapore is almost identical
to the room I had in Mexico City.
The heat feels the same and it’s the same
nondescript decoration
which doesn’t really belong to any time or culture.
It gives me a headache. The neutrality of it.
As I check my messages I remember
I’m not in Singapore.
I’m in Kuala Lumpur.
I haven’t been home for nearly three weeks now.
It’s ridiculously late
The IOC conference is at six thirty
and I’ve been asleep all day.
I get dressed and grab my camera
and leave the hotel with a large, black coffee.
At the press call I see a man from Reuters I recognise.
The coffee here is terrible.
I talk to him about his family
his daughter is four now
he’s shaved off his beard since I last saw him
and he’s moving, he says,
near me apparently
to Southend.
“London Southend” he jokes
with a roll of his eye
and inverted commas.
I say yeah that’s quite near me then move away to take a phone call.
Inside the press conference there are ten people at the table
the women are all wearing identical powder blue suits which
strikes me as idiosyncratically Asian for no good reason.
The men all wear simultaneous translation headphones
but the women don’t.
I wonder if this is because they speak better English than the men
or if it just isn’t considered necessary to translate for them.
They have given the Winter Olympics to Beijing.
I wonder what is lost between the
Mandarin spoken by the mayor of Beijing
and the English spoken by the translator.
The space between words.
The space between looking left
and looking right.
It’s a nice atmosphere in the cool air-conditioned room.
I’m struck by how nice everyone is
except for the British delegates
including the man from Reuters who speculates
that the voting was rigged.
A while later someone else calls it a “farce”.
I get a photograph of the IOC President’s face
as it falls
and email it to my office from my seat.
Outside, the Petronas towers rise above the conference centre like
enormous empty silos.
This is my first time in Kuala Lumpur
the last city I have to visit before I go home.
I get in a taxi and say the name of my hotel
and the city flashes by.
I look out of the window at
the buildings as they pass and they
don’t so much slide past
or glide past
the motion isn’t smooth.
They sort of click past.
They tick past, dit-dit-dit:
Building after building
dit-dit-dit-dit-dit
My eyes don’t quite refresh the image fast enough
to keep up with all the buildings
as they pass.
The taxi stops and I pay seventeen ringgit and get out:
it has gone by the time I realise this is not my hotel.
I don’t know where I am but I was in the taxi long enough to know that I
am some distance
from the centre of the city.
I look up at the name of the hotel the driver has taken me to
and the English transliteration is very similar to the name of the hotel I am staying in.
I go inside.
There’s a nightclub in the hotel
I order Glenfiddich
double,
cut with water.
not because I like it but
because there’s something about scotch that feels
moneyed
heavy amber liquid in heavy-bottomed glasses
it helps me buy into this idea of the travelling businessman
even though that’s a lie.
I’m just a man who takes pictures.
And I want to go home.
I sit at the bar which is as long as my driveway.
I swirl my glass and watch the amber legs trickle down the sides.
A moving light above it hits the gloss black surface
with an open white like the early morning sun on my gravel
as I get into my car.
A girl from here, young enough to be my daughter, is talking to me.
She points out her friends and I half-wave, uneasily
and she asks what I’m drinking.
A news alert on my phone says a piece of
plane wreckage
washed up
on Réunion
in the Indian Ocean,
east of Madagascar and south of the Seychelles.
The girl seems nice. She says her name is Dhia
it means “glowing”.
She doesn’t seem to want anything,
certainly not ***;
her friends have disappeared so
I dance with her.
As we dance I see something in her eyes that is at once
both young and
endlessly wise.
She has deep brown eyes exactly the colour of earth
and a small mouth which smiles brilliantly.
In the half-light they open up to me like pools
and I imagine
swimming
in them.
Even though she’s only nineteen, twenty-one at most,
there is something about her that’s
maternal
spiritual
nourishing.
She asks me what I’m doing in Kuala Lumpur and I tell her
I don’t know.
She asks me what I did today and I tell her I
slept
then took some photographs.
You’re a photographer, she says, and I shrug
then she leans into my ear and says
don’t tell anyone.
What
I say
and she says
I’m a princess.
And I look into her eyes and she isn’t lying.
She says no-one is going to recognise her
but
just in case
she isn’t supposed to be seen drinking.
Who would I tell
I say to her.
She grins and finishes her beer and it’s true
no-one is looking at her
but she’s the most magnetic person in the room.
In the taxi I say the name of my hotel extremely slowly
and the driver replies in perfect English
yes sir, I know where you mean.
Kuala Lumpur ticks by in electric darkness.
I flick through the news as we drive
I see the photo I took this evening about
a dozen times
or more.
There is something bitter about the tone in all the British press when they talk about the Olympics
as if:
Beijing get to do it twice?
What about us?
I think about a country with a quarter of the world’s population
and I think about the tiny little island I’ve come from
and I feel smaller than I’ve ever felt.
The aircraft wing that washed up in Réunion is from a Boeing 777,
they say.
The same type of aircraft as the one that went down last year.
The one they never found.
It was going from here to Beijing.
Last communication at 1.19am.
And it’s at
that
time
precisely
my phone rings.
It’s my boss in London
she says the Chinese Olympic Committee
are scheduling press conferences.
It looks like I’m going to Beijing.
Note on text: For formatting reasons, this should be read on a full screen, or in landscape mode on a mobile.
i. Blank copy
I look out of the window at
the houses as they pass and they
don’t so much slide past
or glide past
the motion isn’t smooth.
They sort of click past.
They tick past, dit-dit-dit:
House after house after house after house
dit-dit-dit-dit-dit
My eyes don’t quite refresh the image fast enough
to keep up with all the houses
as they pass.
It’s 10 o’clock when I arrive at my office
and no-one is there yet
and I turn on my computer.
I sort of just
sit there
for quite a long time. Then
at 10.37 I print a document I’ve been working on
and I pick up my mug and I go to the kitchen where the printer is
and I put the kettle on.
I log on to the printer but instead of pressing
I press
Copy
instead.
The machine whirs
The light goes
across
And out comes this copy this
Copy of
nothing.
I pick it up from the cradle.
It’s warm.
And I hold it and I look at it and I think:
This is a copy
of nothing.
And since it is no longer an empty piece of paper but now
something more
something
imbued
I don’t put it back in the paper tray
and I don’t put it in the bin.
I carry it carefully with my tea back
to my office and put it
Carefully
on my desk.
I close the door.
Usually when I arrive and no-one is there I keep the door open for a bit.
It’s my way of letting people know I’m here.
It also helps me get a sense of what’s going on in the building
which students are there and what they’re doing
and once I’ve got a decent enough idea
or if there’s someone around I don’t really feel like helping
I close the door.
Today it is quiet.
It is a Friday.
Fridays are quiet.
It is the seventh of March.
It is 2014.
I’m looking out of the window as I recall
without much interest
that yesterday was my father’s sixty-first birthday.
The buses tick past the window.
Without really thinking I
roll down the blind
Until the window is as blank as my copy of
nothing.
I look at it but I
don’t
sit
down
yet.
My computer makes a noise and a purple box
tells me I have a meeting in thirty minutes.
Oh shut up I tell it
out loud.
Now I realise that I never did print my document
so I go back to the printer and the file is still there waiting for me
and I press Print All
and out it comes
and the piece of paper looks
Obnoxious
scrawled over in heavy black print
and ****** coloured columns
and smelling
Smelling of toner.
For someone who claims to be conscious of the environment I
print excessively. But only at work.
It’s the combination of it being free
(or at least, no cost to me)
and that feeling you get when you
swipe
your access card to log in to the printer
and tap the screen dit-dit-dit to choose this or that.
It feels
to me
like being a grown-up.
It’s intoxicating.
I don’t want to go to the meeting
and I’m suddenly annoyed by this ***** piece of paper
which
I ***** up
and throw in the bin.
**** it.
Not even in the recycling.
**** it.
Who cares.
What difference could it possibly make
whether I throw this piece of paper
which I will now have to print again
in the black part of the bin for waste
or the green part of the bin for recycling.
I go back to my computer and press Print but
this time
I keep clicking my mouse
ditditditditditditditditditditditditdit
Yeah.
ditditditditditditditditditditditditdit
ditditditditditditditditditditditditdit
And I go back to the printer and the name of the document comes up on the built-in screen
dozens and dozens of times
the same name of the same document
and I tap
Print All.
And as the machine spits out clone after clone I
mutter under my breath:
**** it.
Yeah.
Then out loud:
**** it.
Yeah.
And as I throw them in the bin and go back for more I think
I’m going to buy a car. Yeah.
And I’m going to drive my car to work and
when I finish work I’m going to drive it
to a big supermarket
a hypermarket
a super hyper mega market
where I will buy and buy and buy,
and on my way home I will buy petrol to put in my car
And I will go on holiday
I will book all those last minute deals on the internet
And go to Turkey or Lanzarote or Corfu for a hundred
or a couple of hundred
pounds, every month maybe
And I’ll fly there on a big plane.
I’ll soar over the ocean on a big plane.
And when I come back
I’ll soar over all those people outside Stansted Airport
All those
people
With banners
Moaning and complaining and protesting
Banners saying things like
I don’t know
“Down with planes”
And as the flight attendant smiles goodbye I’ll think
yeah.
Down with planes.
And I’ll drive my car home and I will
stop
worrying
about
everything.
I go back to my office.
I retrieve one copy of my document from the bin and I
put it on top of my copy of nothing.
Whereas before the document offended me
now I have difficulty
telling the difference between the two.
My colleague arrives and she tells me about the motorway.
She’s always telling me about the motorway.
I think about my car I’m going to buy and I
think about being on the motorway.
I think about being on that part of the M25
where the planes are so low you duck as they thunder over you
and they come
in rapid succession
dit dit dit
rapid eye movement
radar.
I think about being stuck in traffic there and the air
thick with exhaust fumes
mixing with the air around Heathrow
and all those tons of jet fuel from the planes zooming over
Blink and you miss them
but always another follows.
I go to my meeting.
I realise that I have picked up my blank copy
along with the document I printed for the meeting.
Someone says they wish I’d printed more than one copy
as it turns out it would be useful for everyone to have one
and I laugh in their face without explaining myself.
I make notes on it.
My copy of nothing.
Without really realising
I’ve scribbled notes on it
but as I look at my spidery black biro handwriting
and think with some real despair about how I have mindlessly
destroyed
something pure
the notes
disappear
into the paper
and it is clean again.
ii. Ringing sea
My eyes don’t quite refresh the image fast enough.
What I’m looking at
my rational brain tells me
is a video of two people having ***.
I have seen that before.
But what I’m actually watching is a video of
my husband
having ***
with another woman.
And my eyes don’t refresh the image fast enough
So I keep seeing his face.
The whole picture melts away and
I just see his face
Which belongs to me.
It’s my face. I – own it.
It’s my- my- my-
And it freezes there
just his face is all I can see then the video continues for a
split second then freezes again
His face
His face
His face It’s him
It’s him
It’s him.
I stop the video and I put the phone down on the table
and I breathe very deeply and
every time I blink, between every saccade
there is his face
a face I know intimately
and it’s looking away from me.
I turn on the television. It is Saturday.
He is flying back from Asia on Tuesday. I have until then to
what?
The sound and light from the television
flicker over me
And I sort of just empty,
Quietly, like a balloon disappearing into the sky.
I don’t know what I’m going to do but
for now that’s
fine.
The brown armchair swallows me up
and I cry for two hours without really noticing.
The cookery programme I’m not watching finishes and I think
the news is about to come on so I turn off the TV
and I put on my shoes
and I go down the stairs and out of the house
and I get in my car.
It’s raining and I just sit there.
Without starting the engine I flick on the windscreen wipers:
Dit / dit.
Dit \ dit.
Dit / dit.
It takes less than three seconds for them to pass
from one side of the windscreen to the other.
And I get this feeling this
unexplainable feeling
that I want to crawl inside that moment
when the wipers are moving from one side of the screen
to the other.
I flip down the sun shield and look at myself in the mirror.
There are two lipsticks in the glove compartment.
I pick the darker one
and apply it
carefully
sensually.
I start the car.
West London ebbs away to the motorway
My car is silver and in the rain it feels invisible
I don’t know where I’m going
I follow words on signposts I recognise the shape of
without really reading them
and I keep driving
I let my eyes come away from the road and
watch the fields and trees tick past like cells of film
and I look at the cars on the other carriageway
and I notice they’re all silver like mine
(only mine is invisible)
and I duck as a Boeing 777 soars over near the M4 interchange
and let myself scream soundlessly under the roar of its engines.
I wonder where it came from.
I think about the people on board.
I think about their mobile phones and
all the ******* there must be on them
and I realise
how many videos there must be in the world
of people having ***.
I take the M23 past Gatwick Airport
the motorway ends but I keep driving
until finally I come to the sea.
No-one is here because it’s March and it’s raining.
I have always loved the sea.
Not sailing or swimming or surfing
Just being near it, for me it’s
a spiritual experience.
I’ll lie on the stones and gaze at the sky for hours
but not today.
There are some flowers tied to a railing
somebody has drowned.
Presumably they never found a body to bury.
The awfulness of that strikes me like a stone.
It’s the not knowing.
The lack of 100% concrete total proof.
I take my phone out of my handbag.
But I know now.
The shingle crunches underneath my flat shoes.
Now I know.
The cold burns my ears and the wind picks up as I get closer to the water
the tide slips serpentine up the stones
white-edged
beckoning me.
Without realising I’ve slipped
out of
my shoes
but the stones do not hurt my coarse feet
and the wind
howling now
catches me behind my knees
quickening my stride.
The spit curls around my toes.
And then I catch myself wondering
whether my husband will call me or
text me when he lands
and I hurl
my phone
into the sea.
On the drive home I listen to the radio.
The news is dominated by the Crimean conflict
and the referendum that’s coming up there.
Florence Nightingale
is all I can think about when they talk about Crimea.
Until recently I never even knew where it was.
At school you only learn about Florence Nightingale
not the geography
not the conflicts
not Ukraine’s edges so charred by
invasion and,
subsequently,
explosion.
We live in so many war zones.
and I’m wondering what else I never learned about when
the story changes and now they are talking about a plane.
A plane is missing
between Kuala Lumpur and Beijing
and the blood drains out of me.
It isn’t like floating away like a balloon this time
it’s like plunging off a cliff.
And at once I see
with brilliant, burning clarity
my phone, ringing, on the sea bed
The light from the screen illuminates the stormy water but
I can’t see the name:
I can’t see who’s calling.
I need to know.
I need to know it’s him.
I drive back at twice the speed limit.
In the dark the flowers look menacing and half-dead; my
shoes fall off in the same place
But the tide is in so the whole beach looks different.
I’m up to my waist but my
top half
is as wet
as my bottom half
because the rain
is torrential
and I can still hear the phone ringing
but I can’t see the light in the sea.
and I howl
his name
but the wind carries it away soundlessly
and I can’t tell if I’m
further out
or if the tide’s further in
and the ringing grows louder
as the current takes me powerfully by the waist and
the stars rush by overhead.
iii. Acid rain
Every time I blink, between every saccade I see
a brilliant but infinitesimally brief flash of colour.
Purple
or green
I think.
One on top of the other.
It’s hard to tell for sure because they’re so brief.
It’s like when you look at a light bulb for too long
or stare directly at the sun.
I see it sometimes when I’m on my bike
or on a really big rollercoaster
going downhill at 100 miles an hour
the wind blasting through me
the screams whirling through the air.
But I’m not on a rollercoaster, I’m sat very still
it’s Monday afternoon and I’m at school.
I haven’t said a single word to a single person today.
I didn’t even answer my name in the register.
I feel a bit dizzy like
everything is turning together
but I’m on a different
axis?
I think the bell goes, I’m
not a hundred percent sure,
but I leave anyway and no-one stops me.
Outside in the sunshine the flashes of colour are
several thousand times brighter.
In the next lesson I slip in my earbuds and
it looks like the teacher is singing the words.
I put on the most obscene song I can find.
I must have it on too loud
because eventually she notices and
she forces me to give her the headphones. This is the first time
someone has spoken to me today
it feels a bit surreal
but the world stops spinning
a bit.
After school I go into the supermarket on Wigmore Lane
the enormous white of it is tinged in green and purple
and all I want is to buy a drink
I have a feeling of exactly the kind of drink I want
but I can’t find the right one
even though the fridge must be longer than
the driveway of my house.
Racks of newspapers and magazines clamour for my attention
the only real colour in this great white warehouse of a store
red tops and blue spreads
and green and purple and green and purple
and green and purple…
They’re talking about that missing plane in the news
and they keep using the same phrase.
They’re talking about the people on board the missing plane
and they keep saying
Missing
presumed dead.
Not dead dead. Presumed dead.
I start wondering what it’s like to be both dead and alive at the same time,
as if all the people on board that plane are like Schrödinger’s cat
(cats)
and we won’t know whether they’re dead or alive until we find the plane
and pull it out of the sea
and look inside
so
until then
they’re both.
Out in the car park I count the planes as they descend onto
the runway less than a mile away.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight,
I figure about a hundred and eighty a plane maybe,
which means fifteen hundred people just arrived in Luton.
Nobody comes to Luton for the scenery.
Soon they’ll be gone,
A town haunted by a ghost population of thousands an hour.
filtered onto the trains and buses
and out from the sprawling car parks
to the motorway, and
onto connecting flights back into Europe
but none of them will stay in Luton
Missing
presumed dead.
As I bike through Luton I think it might not be so strange to be dead and alive at the same time.
I’ve lived here my whole life and the whole place
which is a *******
moves with the mundanity of machinery
like the big car factories by the airport
the lights on, the production lines rolling
but all a bit automatic and lifeless.
But in the airport, it’s different.
The air, with its artificial chill, hangs with a faint shimmer
and the people here move purposefully, and with charge
excitedly
or dejectedly
but not neutrally
heading for the gates where they are sealed two hundred a time into airtight tubes
like Schrödinger’s cat:
dead and alive in the air;
one or the other on the ground.
My teachers say I have an
“odd way of looking at things”.
I leave my bike outside without chaining it up and go into the terminal.
In a café in the check-in hall I find exactly the drink I want
and I pay £2.75 for it.
I look at the departure boards.
Edinburgh. Bonn. Marseilles.
A green light flashes next to each gate as it opens
green and purple
green and purple
Missing
presumed dead
The flashes of colour are growing brighter
every time I move my eyes a green and purple streak follows behind like a jet stream
but the bustle and activity of the airport is so much that I can’t keep my eyes still
so they keep darting
this way and that
until my vision is painted over
green and purple.
The streaks roll over each other like clouds of acid rain.
This is the final call for flight 370 to–
My bike is gone when I go back outside
The front of the terminal is a plateau of thousands upon thousands of cars
and it’s probably in one of them
but I’ll never know which.
The car parks reach all the way back to the runway.
Green and purple acid rain from all the jet fuel mixed with the air
melts a hole in the fence and I slip through
moving purposefully
with charge
across the green and purple grass
scorched by a hundred thousand landings
a hundred thousand people arriving in Luton
And there on the tarmac
glinting in the rain
surrounded by blinking amber
there is my bike
its black handlebars spread like the wings of a jet plane.
I duck as an Airbus screams in just a few feet over my head
the rush from the engine lifting the soles of my feet from the ground.
I pick up the bike and start pedalling
pedalling down the runway
pedalling towards the blinking amber.
It feels light, nimble, fast
the tyres take the asphalt with ease.
And the faster I go the lighter I feel
the acid rain eats away at my clothes
and they melt off my body and pool on the runway below,
Lighter
and lighter until…
The wheels lift away from the ground
and in the air I am dead and alive
and maybe nobody will
ever
see me
again.
iv. Burning sky
The faster I go, the lighter I feel.
I’ve taken the night watch and the yacht
is cruising across the Indian Ocean
penetrating the black abyss like a white bullet
and the lights in the portholes send shimmering white bullet shapes
for miles across the endless ink.
What?
We’re not going very fast at all
But it feels like any minute
we might drop off the edge of the world.
I hope we do.
I feel light and dizzy and irrational
and I feel aware of being
light and dizzy and irrational
and I wonder if this is what going mad feels like.
Have you ever felt like you’re living in a corner of your own life?
I
feel like that a lot lately.
Marc is sleeping.
We didn’t speak much today.
I can’t really remember how long it’s been
since we left Victoria but the fight
we had there
in a bistro by the port we
said things we
said things that
we can’t take back.
The Seychelles were stifling.
The heat was stifling.
He was stifling.
And the people were stifling
the people kept talking about pirates.
They kept warning us about pirates.
You’re sailing where
they say
You must be careful
they say
It’s notorious
they say
I have fantasies about being kidnapped by pirates.
Not stupid Johnny Depp pirates with *** and parrots, no
Real pirates.
Nasty pirates.
With dark snarls and AK-47s.
When we were at sea off the Horn I’d see things on the horizon
Dots or lights I couldn’t make out
And I’d imagine the rifle against my neck
Their hot breath
Chains and ransoms.
I’d wonder how much we’d be worth.
If we’d make national news.
Would it be David Cameron to announce,
regrettably,
we don’t negotiate with pirates,
or would it be someone less important?
Maybe just the foreign secretary.
What is the worth of my life at the end of a steel barrel?
But it would only be a buoy, or a plane on the horizon,
and I would get into bed with Marc
disappearing under the covers like a different kind of hostage.
I
oh
I
Sorry
I’m crying.
I don’t know when I started crying.
The thing is I don’t know if it’s me breaking the marriage
or the marriage breaking me.
I’m watching everything literally fall to pieces and for all I know
it’s me with the detonator.
And then
everything
literally falls to pieces
My mug of coffee falls from my hand
shatters on the deck
and the sea rears up nightmarishly.
Above me
a long orange **** of flame
is burned into the sky.
No, really.
That’s not a metaphor.
There is fire in the sky.
It’s about a mile up and a mile away.
Look.
There.
****.
**** **** ****.
What is that?
Marc!
I call for Marc.
Marc!
There is fire in the sky.
– Katherine.
Fire in the sky.
Fire in the
Fire in
– Katherine.
Fire
– Katherine.
What
Marc, what?
– Are you awake?
I think so.
– You were calling out again.
Calling
– Calling out. You were shouting.
What
where
What time is it?
Where
– Dubai. We’re in Dubai. It’s 7.
They delayed again while you were sleeping.
Dubai?
– Katy I really think you should see a doctor.
Don’t call me that.
– Pardon?
Katy.
Don’t call me that.
Like
– Like what?
Everything’s okay.
–
Everything’s not okay.
– There’s
doctors. You’re not well. You’ve been confused since,
well actually since before it even happened.
You think I’ve been confused.
– Not right.
Not you.
You’re **** right.
– Forget it.
Thank you.
– Go back to sleep. ****.
– Are you still seeing it?
The plane? On fire.
You’re dreaming about it, aren’t you?
Yes.
– It’s affecting you?
I’m
just
unhappy,
Marc.
– That’s not just it though is it?
What’s that supposed to mean?
– Something about seeing that
plane has scared you.
We don’t know it was the plane.
The one that –
– No. But, right place, right time.
They said
Maybe.
– It’s still a coincidence.
It’s not
What
– A sign.
From god.
Or
whatever.
Whatever you think it means.
Katherine.
The thing I don’t know, Marc
is if I’m more scared that it was the plane
or that it wasn’t.
–
Imagine.
Vanishing.
Into thin air.
– I know.
No, you don’t.
Disappearing
into thin air
Or falling
out of it.
– Falling.
You can’t imagine that.
– I can.
– I can, Katy.
I ******* can
Imagine.
Falling.
Disappearing.
Into thin air.
*******
invisible.
I am
right
******* here,
Katherine.
I see you.
I see you Marc.
But you’re not
solid.
I’m not
solid.
See?
It passes
right through.
Now you see me.
Now yo–
v. 2015
Have you ever felt like you’re living in a corner of your own life?
The hotel room here in Singapore is almost identical
to the room I had in Mexico City.
The heat feels the same and it’s the same
nondescript decoration
which doesn’t really belong to any time or culture.
It gives me a headache. The neutrality of it.
As I check my messages I remember
I’m not in Singapore.
I’m in Kuala Lumpur.
I haven’t been home for nearly three weeks now.
It’s ridiculously late
The IOC conference is at six thirty
and I’ve been asleep all day.
I get dressed and grab my camera
and leave the hotel with a large, black coffee.
At the press call I see a man from Reuters I recognise.
The coffee here is terrible.
I talk to him about his family
his daughter is four now
he’s shaved off his beard since I last saw him
and he’s moving, he says,
near me apparently
to Southend.
“London Southend” he jokes
with a roll of his eye
and inverted commas.
I say yeah that’s quite near me then move away to take a phone call.
Inside the press conference there are ten people at the table
the women are all wearing identical powder blue suits which
strikes me as idiosyncratically Asian for no good reason.
The men all wear simultaneous translation headphones
but the women don’t.
I wonder if this is because they speak better English than the men
or if it just isn’t considered necessary to translate for them.
They have given the Winter Olympics to Beijing.
I wonder what is lost between the
Mandarin spoken by the mayor of Beijing
and the English spoken by the translator.
The space between words.
The space between looking left
and looking right.
It’s a nice atmosphere in the cool air-conditioned room.
I’m struck by how nice everyone is
except for the British delegates
including the man from Reuters who speculates
that the voting was rigged.
A while later someone else calls it a “farce”.
I get a photograph of the IOC President’s face
as it falls
and email it to my office from my seat.
Outside, the Petronas towers rise above the conference centre like
enormous empty silos.
This is my first time in Kuala Lumpur
the last city I have to visit before I go home.
I get in a taxi and say the name of my hotel
and the city flashes by.
I look out of the window at
the buildings as they pass and they
don’t so much slide past
or glide past
the motion isn’t smooth.
They sort of click past.
They tick past, dit-dit-dit:
Building after building
dit-dit-dit-dit-dit
My eyes don’t quite refresh the image fast enough
to keep up with all the buildings
as they pass.
The taxi stops and I pay seventeen ringgit and get out:
it has gone by the time I realise this is not my hotel.
I don’t know where I am but I was in the taxi long enough to know that I
am some distance
from the centre of the city.
I look up at the name of the hotel the driver has taken me to
and the English transliteration is very similar to the name of the hotel I am staying in.
I go inside.
There’s a nightclub in the hotel
I order Glenfiddich
double,
cut with water.
not because I like it but
because there’s something about scotch that feels
moneyed
heavy amber liquid in heavy-bottomed glasses
it helps me buy into this idea of the travelling businessman
even though that’s a lie.
I’m just a man who takes pictures.
And I want to go home.
I sit at the bar which is as long as my driveway.
I swirl my glass and watch the amber legs trickle down the sides.
A moving light above it hits the gloss black surface
with an open white like the early morning sun on my gravel
as I get into my car.
A girl from here, young enough to be my daughter, is talking to me.
She points out her friends and I half-wave, uneasily
and she asks what I’m drinking.
A news alert on my phone says a piece of
plane wreckage
washed up
on Réunion
in the Indian Ocean,
east of Madagascar and south of the Seychelles.
The girl seems nice. She says her name is Dhia
it means “glowing”.
She doesn’t seem to want anything,
certainly not ***;
her friends have disappeared so
I dance with her.
As we dance I see something in her eyes that is at once
both young and
endlessly wise.
She has deep brown eyes exactly the colour of earth
and a small mouth which smiles brilliantly.
In the half-light they open up to me like pools
and I imagine
swimming
in them.
Even though she’s only nineteen, twenty-one at most,
there is something about her that’s
maternal
spiritual
nourishing.
She asks me what I’m doing in Kuala Lumpur and I tell her
I don’t know.
She asks me what I did today and I tell her I
slept
then took some photographs.
You’re a photographer, she says, and I shrug
then she leans into my ear and says
don’t tell anyone.
What
I say
and she says
I’m a princess.
And I look into her eyes and she isn’t lying.
She says no-one is going to recognise her
but
just in case
she isn’t supposed to be seen drinking.
Who would I tell
I say to her.
She grins and finishes her beer and it’s true
no-one is looking at her
but she’s the most magnetic person in the room.
In the taxi I say the name of my hotel extremely slowly
and the driver replies in perfect English
yes sir, I know where you mean.
Kuala Lumpur ticks by in electric darkness.
I flick through the news as we drive
I see the photo I took this evening about
a dozen times
or more.
There is something bitter about the tone in all the British press when they talk about the Olympics
as if:
Beijing get to do it twice?
What about us?
I think about a country with a quarter of the world’s population
and I think about the tiny little island I’ve come from
and I feel smaller than I’ve ever felt.
The aircraft wing that washed up in Réunion is from a Boeing 777,
they say.
The same type of aircraft as the one that went down last year.
The one they never found.
It was going from here to Beijing.
Last communication at 1.19am.
And it’s at
that
time
precisely
my phone rings.
It’s my boss in London
she says the Chinese Olympic Committee
are scheduling press conferences.
It looks like I’m going to Beijing.
Written 2016-2020.
L Smida Jan 2012
Jump and Fly
L Smida
Jan 2012
Hello there, I’m Heidi. I’m 17 years old but I’m no longer alive. I was 16 years old when I died. It’s been a year since I’ve breathed the earthly oxygen. The air up here is so much fresher than down there. It’s quite unbelievable. If you listen closely, I’ll happily tell you my story even though it’s not very happy. If you're emotional, please take a moment to make sure there's a box of tissues handy, because by the time I reach the end, you might need some. I’m just letting you know. It’s not a happy ending. Anyways, have you ever fallen in love? Not the kind of love that you confused with the real kind. I’m talking about true, heart pumping love. The kind where you'll do absolutely anything for, anything in the world. Even if it kills you. The kind that if it starts slipping away, you'll do whatever it takes to hold it together. You’re probably asking yourself, "16 and in love?" Yea. Well, here is my story.
It all started with the day Sammy’s dad got a new job out of state. We lived in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania for as long as I could remember and her dad's new job was all the way over in Long Beach, California. "This can’t be happening," I thought to myself. "How will I survive without Sammy? She’s literally my life, the air I simply breathe every day. She’s the only person I fully trust with my whole heart. She’s the only person in my life worth talking to. She’s so incredibly sweet, the sweetest girl I’ve ever met. She doesn’t judge, she doesn’t cause any trouble, she’s real down to earth, well put together, and smart. Everything." It seemed too perfect, almost dream-like. You know, the dream that you never want to wake up from. Well, there I was living it and I didn’t ever want to wake up.
People use to call me "The Dreamer" because I was always in a great mood. I was always smiling and taking big risks. I only took those risks if I absolutely thought it was worth it. Which most of the time I thought it was. In my opinion, I thought I was too positive but not cocky. I was definitely not cocky at all. I was simply positive and cheerful and constantly trying to cheer everyone else up. Especially Sammy, I secretly thought that I had super powers. I somehow summoned a power deep within myself that could make real smiles appear on people’s faces. Real smiles! The ones that create a bundle of energy instead of taking it away. You know, fake smiles, they are forced as a result of wasted energy. The only thing better than real smiles are real laughs. My energy comes from laughs and smiles from other people. When I created laughter and smiles, my energy level would rise to the top of the meter and I would be confident about everything. I would feel indestructible, and nothing could ever hurt me. So I thought.
When Sammy and I said our goodbyes that day, I surely didn’t want that to be the end. I didn’t want that moment to be the last. So I promised her that I would look for her in the future and we could get back together. We’d keep in touch everyday with texts, calls, and the internet. She got on the plane and that was that. I didn’t cry. She didn’t cry. Until our backs were toward each other, then I couldn’t hold it. We knew we’d see each other again and we were sure of it. She knew I had a plan up my sleeve and that I was going to make sure everything was going to be alright. Trust, number one thing in a relationship.
The next day I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t put up with the empty feeling anymore. She wasn’t physically here. I missed seeing her face, her smile, and her eyes. I missed her laughter and her hugs the most. My energy was dying. So I thought up a scheme and I was going to follow through with it. I called her up and told her that I was coming to see her. Soon.
I searched all my drawers and pockets for all my money. I was going to have to be able to afford a one-way plane ticket and maybe a hotel if Sammy's parents wouldn't let me stay with them. I wanted to plan for the worst just in case. I wouldn't want to show up with no money and assume they'd let me live with them. What if they wouldn't, then I'd be *******. So after a while of looking around, I came up with 510 dollars. Enough for a plane ticket and a cheap hotel for a few days. I’ll have to find a job for sure. But first, I'd have to go online and find the cheapest airline to use.
I picked out a few sets of clothes and fit them into a single bag. I didn’t want anything slowing me down. I didn’t tell anyone I was leaving or where I was going. Besides Steve, my neighbor, I got him to drop me off at the airport. We waited in line to buy a ticket to the first flight to California. Fortunately, the soonest one was in a few hours and there was still a few seats left. He walked me to the security check and then they wouldn't let him past without a ticket, so he wrapped his arms around me gave me a tight squeeze and he told me that he'd miss me an awful lot and if I ever needed any help to just call him and he would help out as best he could. Which made me feel a ton more relaxed. He had tears in his eyes when we separated. I remembered saying, "I’ll text you when I get there." I assured him that I would be just fine and he had nothing to worry about. I also thanked him for being such a great friend. He really was and always will be. He stood there as I attempted to walk away, but then I turned and had to go back for another hug. Then I was sure I was ready to go. The second attempt to walk away was more successful than the first. I felt him watch me the whole way till I turned the corner, out of his sight.
I sat in the terminal for a long time, analyzing the room. I remember that there was a cute little blonde girl with her dad, a guy with a mysterious black hat and matching trench coat, a tall thin girl with a guitar, an average looking group of 20 year old guys and a few old women. Those were the only people that stood out, there was many more but I don’t particularly remember them. After a while, they started calling seat numbers that were allowed to board, starting with the back. My ticket said that I was seat number 22. When they called 20 through 30, I got up and found my seat in the big jet. The butterflies in my tummy are as hyper as possible. I imagined myself with a butterfly net trying to capture all the fluttering creatures inside me so I could release them on the outside. They were all crammed in there, fighting each other for space, and it was an unbalanced feeling. I put my bag under my seat, sat down in seat 22 and decided to make a quick call to Sammy. I told her I was on my way and I should be there in a few hours. She sounded extraordinarily excited which made my heart pound. She made the violent butterflies stop their fighting. She also told me that her parents agreed to pick me up at the airport. How nice of them! Then a lady told me to get off the phone. I thought it was rude of her to say that to me, but I don’t like making people mad, so I listened to her. The thing I remember the most is when I told Sammy that I love her, with honesty in her voice she said it back. Then I hung up and then I finally turn my phone off. As soon as everyone was in and completely ready, a woman’s voice spoke on the income system. She said something about there being flight attendants going around checking everyone’s bags and seatbelts to make sure they're secure. There was the sound of my pulse in my ears and it was louder than anything else. It was difficult to catch everything she was saying. I buckled my seat belt but I left a lot of room for movement. Before I knew it, we were up in the air. Then I closed my eyes and that’s all I remember. Don’t ask me how I fell asleep. All the excitement must've made me exhausted.
The next thing I know, all of a sudden, I was thrown from my seat and I hit my head off the window and it sent sharp shooting pains through my nerves. Everyone gasped at the same exact moment, and I had no idea what was going on. I don’t think anyone did but I think we all knew it wasn’t good. The feeling was like standing in an elevator, having the cables snap, and being dropped from 100 stories high. Only it was a million times worse. I was being thrown around everywhere. I couldn't hold on or even fight back. Everyone was in mad panic trying to grasp anything near to sturdy themselves. I managed to get a glimpse out the window to see the clouds shaking. That told me that the plane wasn’t working right. Something absolutely horrible was going to happen, the feeling was so strong. I heard a loud click and then a thud and I caught a glance of the little blonde girl across the aisle from me get hit in the face with a huge metal suite case. It hit her so hard that it knocked her clear out of this world. She fell limp and her head lay still on the floor, blood oozing out. The puddle started streaking toward me, it told me that the plane was tilting or rolling over. I noticed that her dad wasn’t around. I stumbled across the aisle and held her in my arms. I remember my vision being really blurry probably from tears or the plane shaking, or both. I patted her cheeks to try and wake her, but she was out. I held her tight and quickly took the time to look around for help but then realized there was no help. Every ounce of calmness was clearly gone. I set the girl in the seat and buckled her in. I wasn’t sure if that would do anything but it seemed like a good idea. The plane stayed tilted on its side then shook and it literally felt like an earth quake. My stomach started twisting; the nose of the plane was dipping forward. I took another look out the window. My head was spinning, thoughts scattered everywhere. Everything was moving way too fast and I couldn’t keep up. I couldn’t concentrate or focus on anything. I stood up and that was it. After that, everything went black and then a bright white light took over. Eventually something happened and I was floating above looking down. It was a horrid sight, everything so lifeless and dead, unmoving. Besides for the flames, they were more alive than anything. Smashed metal, sparks and fire, soundless noise, and in the middle of nowhere, what was going to happen to all these bodies?
Later, I somehow channeled my sight into a different location. It’s been hours later and I saw Sammy and her parents in the airport. They were anxiously waiting for my plane to arrive. Little did they know, I wasn’t coming. Hours and hours passed only making them more and more worried and confused. I felt horrible. I wish I could send them a message from up here. They went to look at the departure and arrival screen and there was no time recorded on the screen for the flight they were looking for. It was completely wiped off the board. Her dad led them to the main desk to ask the man behind the counter if the plane had arrived yet. A sorrowful look fell upon the man’s face. He blinked away tears and you could tell he was searching for the right words to say. He started to open his mouth but then failed to force words out. He swallowed a gulp of air and he shook his head. Something turned all their attention to the 40 inch flat screen on the wall where there was a lady reporting “heart breaking news” about a tragic accident. He pointed Sammy’s attention to the television behind him, although she was already deeply fascinated. The news reporter explained and then there were live videos being shown from a chopper that was looking down at the accident. Sammy cupped her hands over her mouth. Tears immediately leaked down her face. Her parents were crying too. Sammy collapsed to her knees. I felt like I was standing right there watching everything but I couldn’t feel my feet. I floated over to Sammy who was sitting on the floor with her face buried in her hands. Her mom knelt next to her with her arms braced around her. I waved my arms and shouted, "Look I’m right here! Please stop crying." But no one saw me or heard me. I went over to Sammy and tried to grab her face to make her look at me, but I couldn’t feel anything. I looked down at my hands and they were transparent. I panicked and I knew this couldn’t be happening. But it was. I was dead.
I channeled into another location, my house. My parents were watching the same news channel but they didn’t know I was on that plane. They didn’t know I was missing. They didn’t know I was dead until weeks later. When I didn’t come home that night, they called the cops and sent out search parties. Whelp, they found me. They identified my body in the plane. My parents didn’t believe it because they had no idea how I would've got on the plane in the first place. Then when they brought my body back to bury it, it was proof to them that it was fact me. I absolutely hated watching everyone cry. I hated that I couldn’t do anything about it. Everyone that I left was left in silence. I at least got to tell Sammy that I love her. I got a last hug out of Steve. Those were the most important people in my life. I couldn’t feel worse at this moment.
I felt like I was doing the right thing, chasing my dreams.
The dreamer thought she could fly.
It all started with the day Sammy’s dad got a new job out of state. We lived in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania for as long as I could remember and her dad's new job was all the way over in Long Beach, California. "This can’t be happening," I thought to myself. "How will I survive without Sammy? She’s literally my life, the air I simply breathe every day. She’s the only person I fully trust with my whole heart. She’s the only person in my life worth talking to. She’s so incredibly sweet, the sweetest girl I’ve ever met. She doesn’t judge, she doesn’t cause any trouble, she’s real down to earth, well put together, and smart. Everything." It seemed too perfect, almost dream-like. You know, the dream that you never want to wake up from. Well, there I was living it and I didn’t ever want to wake up.
People use to call me "The Dreamer" because I was always in a great mood. I was always smiling and taking big risks. I only took those risks if I absolutely thought it was worth it. Which most of the time I thought it was. In my opinion, I thought I was too positive but not cocky. I was definitely not cocky at all. I was simply positive and cheerful and constantly trying to cheer everyone else up. Especially Sammy, I secretly thought that I had super powers. I somehow summoned a power deep within myself that could make real smiles appear on people’s faces. Real smiles! The ones that create a bundle of energy instead of taking it away. You know, fake smiles, they are forced as a result of wasted energy. The only thing better than real smiles are real laughs. My energy comes from laughs and smiles from other people. When I created laughter and smiles, my energy level would rise to the top of the meter and I would be confident about everything. I would feel indestructible, and nothing could ever hurt me. So I thought.
When Sammy and I said our goodbyes that day, I surely didn’t want that to be the end. I didn’t want that moment to be the last. So I promised her that I would look for her in the future and we could get back together. We’d keep in touch everyday with texts, calls, and the internet. She got on the plane and that was that. I didn’t cry. She didn’t cry. Until our backs were toward each other, then I couldn’t hold it. We knew we’d see each other again and we were sure of it. She knew I had a plan up my sleeve and that I was going to make sure everything was going to be alright. Trust, number one thing in a relationship.
The next day I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t put up with the empty feeling anymore. She wasn’t physically here. I missed seeing her face, her smile, and her eyes. I missed her laughter and her hugs the most. My energy was dying. So I thought up a scheme and I was going to follow through with it. I called her up and told her that I was coming to see her. Soon.
I searched all my drawers and pockets for all my money. I was going to have to be able to afford a one-way plane ticket and maybe a hotel if Sammy's parents wouldn't let me stay with them. I wanted to plan for the worst just in case. I wouldn't want to show up with no money and assume they'd let me live with them. What if they wouldn't, then I'd be *******. So after a while of looking around, I came up with 510 dollars. Enough for a plane ticket and a cheap hotel for a few days. I’ll have to find a job for sure. But first, I'd have to go online and find the cheapest airline to use.
I picked out a few sets of clothes and fit them into a single bag. I didn’t want anything slowing me down. I didn’t tell anyone I was leaving or where I was going. Besides Steve, my neighbor, I got him to drop me off at the airport. We waited in line to buy a ticket to the first flight to California. Fortunately, the soonest one was in a few hours and there was still a few seats left. He walked me to the security check and then they wouldn't let him past without a ticket, so he wrapped his arms around me gave me a tight squeeze and he told me that he'd miss me an awful lot and if I ever needed any help to just call him and he would help out as best he could. Which made me feel a ton more relaxed. He had tears in his eyes when we separated. I remembered saying, "I’ll text you when I get there." I assured him that I would be just fine and he had nothing to worry about. I also thanked him for being such a great friend. He really was and always will be. He stood there as I attempted to walk away, but then I turned and had to go back for another hug. Then I was sure I was ready to go. The second attempt to walk away was more successful than the first. I felt him watch me the whole way till I turned the corner, out of his sight.
I sat in the terminal for a long time, analyzing the room. I remember that there was a cute little blonde girl with her dad, a guy with a mysterious black hat and matching trench coat, a tall thin girl with a guitar, an average looking group of 20 year old guys and a few old women. Those were the only people that stood out, there was many more but I don’t particularly remember them. After a while, they started calling seat numbers that were allowed to board, starting with the back. My ticket said that I was seat number 22. When they called 20 through 30, I got up and found my seat in the big jet. The butterflies in my tummy are as hyper as possible. I imagined myself with a butterfly net trying to capture all the fluttering creatures inside me so I could release them on the outside. They were all crammed in there, fighting each other for space, and it was an unbalanced feeling. I put my bag under my seat, sat down in seat 22 and decided to make a quick call to Sammy. I told her I was on my way and I should be there in a few hours. She sounded extraordinarily excited which made my heart pound. She made the violent butterflies stop their fighting. She also told me that her parents agreed to pick me up at the airport. How nice of them! Then a lady told me to get off the phone. I thought it was rude of her to say that to me, but I don’t like making people mad, so I listened to her. The thing I remember the most is when I told Sammy that I love her, with honesty in her voice she said it back. Then I hung up and then I finally turn my phone off. As soon as everyone was in and completely ready, a woman’s voice spoke on the income system. She said something about there being flight attendants going around checking everyone’s bags and seatbelts to make sure they're secure. There was the sound of my pulse in my ears and it was louder than anything else. It was difficult to catch everything she was saying. I buckled my seat belt but I left a lot of room for movement. Before I knew it, we were up in the air. Then I closed my eyes and that’s all I remember. Don’t ask me how I fell asleep. All the excitement must've made me exhausted.
The next thing I know, all of a sudden, I was thrown from my seat and I hit my head off the window and it sent sharp shooting pains through my nerves. Everyone gasped at the same exact moment, and I had no idea what was going on. I don’t think anyone did but I think we all knew it wasn’t good. The feeling was like standing in an elevator, having the cables snap, and being dropped from 100 stories high. Only it was a million times worse. I was being thrown around everywhere. I couldn't hold on or even fight back. Everyone was in mad panic trying to grasp anything near to sturdy themselves. I managed to get a glimpse out the window to see the clouds shaking. That told me that the plane wasn’t working right. Something absolutely horrible was going to happen, the feeling was so strong. I heard a loud click and then a thud and I caught a glance of the little blonde girl across the aisle from me get hit in the face with a huge metal suite case. It hit her so hard that it knocked her clear out of this world. She fell limp and her head lay still on the floor, blood oozing out. The puddle started streaking toward me, it told me that the plane was tilting or rolling over. I noticed that her dad wasn’t around. I stumbled across the aisle and held her in my arms. I remember my vision being really blurry probably from tears or the plane shaking, or both. I patted her cheeks to try and wake her, but she was out. I held her tight and quickly took the time to look around for help but then realized there was no help. Every ounce of calmness was clearly gone. I set the girl in the seat and buckled her in. I wasn’t sure if that would do anything but it seemed like a good idea. The plane stayed tilted on its side then shook and it literally felt like an earth quake. My stomach started twisting; the nose of the plane was dipping forward. I took another look out the window. My head was spinning, thoughts scattered everywhere. Everything was moving way too fast and I couldn’t keep up. I couldn’t concentrate or focus on anything. I stood up and that was it. After that, everything went black and then a bright white light took over. Eventually something happened and I was floating above looking down. It was a horrid sight, everything so lifeless and dead, unmoving. Besides for the flames, they were more alive than anything. Smashed metal, sparks and fire, soundless noise, and in the middle of nowhere, what was going to happen to all these bodies?
Later, I somehow channeled my sight into a different location. It’s been hours later and I saw Sammy and her parents in the airport. They were anxiously waiting for my plane to arrive. Little did they know, I wasn’t coming. Hours and hours passed only making them more and more worried and confused. I felt horrible. I wish I could send them a message from up here. They went to look at the departure and arrival screen and there was no time recorded on the screen for the flight they were looking for. It was completely wiped off the board. Her dad led them to the main desk to ask the man behind the counter if the plane had arrived yet. A sorrowful look fell upon the man’s face. He blinked away tears and you could tell he was searching for the right words to say. He started to open his mouth but then failed to force words out. He swallowed a gulp of air and he shook his head. Something turned all their attention to the 40 inch flat screen on the wall where there was a lady reporting “heart breaking news” about a tragic accident. He pointed Sammy’s attention to the television behind him, although she was already deeply fascinated. The news reporter explained and then there were live videos being shown from a chopper that was looking down at the accident. Sammy cupped her hands over her mouth. Tears immediately leaked down her face. Her parents were crying too. Sammy collapsed to her knees. I felt like I was standing right there watching everything but I couldn’t feel my feet. I floated over to Sammy who was sitting on the floor with her face buried in her hands. Her mom knelt next to her with her arms braced around her. I waved my arms and shouted, "Look I’m right here! Please stop crying." But no one saw me or heard me. I went over to Sammy and tried to grab her face to make her look at me, but I couldn’t feel anything. I looked down at my hands and they were transparent. I panicked and I knew this couldn’t be happening. But it was. I was dead.
I channeled into another location, my house. My parents were watching the same news channel but they didn’t know I was on that plane. They didn’t know I was missing. They didn’t know I was dead until weeks later. When I didn’t come home that night, they called the cops and sent out search parties. Whelp, they found me. They identified my body in the plane. My parents didn’t believe it because they had no idea how I would've got on the plane in the first place. Then when they brought my body back to bury it, it was proof to them that it was fact me. I absolutely hated watching everyone cry. I hated that I couldn’t do anything about it. Everyone that I left was left in silence. I at least got to tell Sammy that I love her. I got a last hug out of Steve. Those were the most important people in my life. I couldn’t feel worse at this moment.
I felt like I was doing the right thing, chasing my dreams.
The dreamer thought she could fly.