Friday Flash Fiction 44
Filed under Friday Flash Fiction • 26-09-2008 •
AZTEC JAGUARS FALLING
By Gareth L PowellIt’s nearly time, and they’re in a small plane, flying over the Mediterranean, fleeing the coming catastrophe. The radio’s quiet tonight; hardly any traffic. The clouds overhead reflect the day’s heat.
“How much longer?” she says.
He looks at his watch: “A few minutes.”
They’re both quite drunk. They’ve been drinking ever since the announcement, two days ago. God knows how he’s got the concentration to navigate up here, in the dark.
Folding her arms, she turns to look out the window at the coast of Spain. It’s a ribbon of yellow light.
“Do you think it’s going to hurt?” she says over the noise of the propeller.
He doesn’t answer. She can see his face reflected in the window, illuminated by the dials on the dashboard. She can see the sweat on his forehead; smell the cabin’s mixed scents of engine oil, fear, and hot plastic.
Neither of them sees the impact – they’re facing the wrong way when the comet hits – but the shockwave catches them about a mile off the coast of Barcelona, and they have to ditch in the sea. It’s midnight. The plane flips onto its back as it hits the water, and the tail breaks off.
A great piece of flash fiction as always, Gareth! I particularly like the “ribbon of yellow light” line.
One of the most tight and economical uses of language I’ve seen for quite some time. Good stuff!
Thanks. It also makes a nice counterpoint to my ranting about “optimism” in the previous post.
As Justin says very tight prose and the sensory detail is spot on.
This is particularly good:
She can see his face reflected in the window, illuminated by the dials on the dashboard. She can see the sweat on his forehead; smell the cabin’s mixed scents of engine oil, fear, and hot plastic.
Thanks for sharing.