The Story in Seat 7F


  Not for me. I'm no quitter.

  Wake up, I want to shout. We're going to die, you idiots.

  Not me.

  The passengers are crazily quiet. They sit with these dull and peaceful looks on their stupid faces. They're sheep.

  There's a sweet little girl who turns to look behind her, but everyone else is just looking ahead as if it's a movie.


   I fumble to release the seat belt.

   I can fix this. I'll think of something. I'm William Testle, damnit.

   At nineteen, I broke USC's Wall of Doom defensive line and rumbled 44 yards for a touchdown.

   At twenty-two, I beat off a mugger.

   "Please, mister, I'm very sick," he'd whimpered just before I kicked him unconscious.

    I'm William Testle. I'd been on Oprah at twenty-six. She'd gushed all over me just because I'd blown up my sister's jerk-ass boyfriend's yacht. And got acquitted.

    I can fix this.

    I move up the aisle to the cockpit door. Locked. They won't let me in, even though I'm almost bashing the door in.

    There's a hostess in the front galley. She's crying.

     " How many engines do we need to keep flying?" I ask her. She just shakes her head and doesn't answer.

     Damnit Will, I think; do something. I look out the nearest window. The clouds are floating by as before. Maybe a bit faster. There is less mechanical noise, only the low murmur from the sheep.

     "Is there another engine on board? Like a spare tire?" I yell at the silly hostess.

      But she's on her knees now, bobbing head towards the fuselage.

      I run down the aisle.

      "Is there an airplane mechanic on board?" I yell.

      Outside, the clouds seem to be zipping by now.

      What the hell? I'm William Testle.

      I can fix this.

      Someone help me fix this.



The End

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