Falling with Style

There wasn’t much to think about before, cosmetics and expensive Kit Kats, that sort of thing, or the way in which the woman in seat 17A had been playing with her hair for about an hour. But when the floor fell out from underneath us, things suddenly became less material.  I fell with my back facing downwards, and noticed that my fingers had broken, likely in the explosion. There was a force which pulled me from my seat and snapped the bones in my hands, backwards. The descent began and I was entirely capable of pushing my fingers from the flapping material on my mittens, my thumbs noticeably quite alright still, although any attempt to strangle myself with any kind of quickness would have proven impossible. My back became numb, my fingers cold. I laughed as I remembered being sat on the floor of my Nan’s living room, the most impressive choice of Disney VHS’s stretched out before me. A sunny afternoon and computer animation, there was something to think about after all. This isn’t flying, this is falling… with style.

As I fell towards the earth I nonchalantly felt my stomach push firmly against the inside of my skin and my eyes wobbled slightly. Barely turning my head to the left I could see where the land met the sky, the entire scene so massive that everything was hysterical and everywhere. I was suspended in an environment made mostly from nothingness, although all of a sudden I had realised that blood was gushing from my ears, both from the noise and from the shock. It ran up my cheeks as I lay flat upon my back, falling downwards, the speed of my lifeless body allowing the expelled blood to battle the logic of gravity most grandly. The sky above me was a dark blue which seemed to stretch on for eternity, and the ground itself was grey, perhaps because of the shadows from the clouds, had there been clouds. I could have been falling for a century, the thin air compressing my thoughts into nonentity. At the end of my outstretched arm a blue skinned individual appeared, someone whom I did not recognise, and he told me that I would never know if I didn’t try. I laughed in his face, and he kindly turned me over so that I could greet death face on.

Below me I could see the outlines of fields and roads. Cities spread in every direction, their faint orange street lights sprawling into the distance like gargantuan, skinny spiders. Every moment which passed, passed by so slowly. For minutes at a time I would close my eyes, but each time that they were reopened I would have grown no more than centimetres closer. I could see the sun breaking cover at the edge of my eyesight and very slowly its light would creep over the surrounding fields. My fingers, now so cold, that I could barely feel the broken bones sitting in their sacks of skin. I could also no longer feel my face, or my back, or my chest. I had been falling for hours, and as it was impossible to turn away and so I kept very still and waited for my face to smash into cold concrete. A cold ending to a cold, tasteful fall.

But quicker now, I could make out the shapes of individual lampposts and cars, tall buildings and signs. I twist my neck sideways and look above me as though I had only just started to fall, although the heat emanating from the wreckage below me confirmed otherwise. All too quickly now there are lights at windows and lines on tarmac. All of a sudden I realise that the world below me was grey only and singularly because it was covered in snow, and in the growing sunlight it sparkled and revealed its pristine and untouched condition which echoed all my fear and hatred and beauty, as I rush ever closer to the surface, and then.

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About Anna

Author of the Insanity Aquarium. Current fears include time as a concept, the squishiness of my right eyeball, and not being able to open this jar.
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8 Responses to Falling with Style

  1. Been thinking that all is wrong with the world somehow lately, but the idea of you writing a plane crash story, on a plane, has helped somewhat to set it right. I like how the blue guy kindly turned you over to face death head on.
    And, though it had nothing to do with your story, your mention of “skinny spiders” made me think of a spider wearing “skinny” jeans, checking itself out in the mirror, saying “Yeahhh, lookin’ good.” Yeah, there’s stuff wrong with me.

    Like

    • Anna says:

      Why has it taken me so long to reply to this?… I blame Lumpy Space Princess.

      Thank you for your comment as always my dear. There was a spider in my bath the other day, I kept telling it not to have a wash in there, but it didn’t listen to me. Now it lives in the plantpot outside. If he doesn’t set up a skinny jeans business there, I will be most disappointed.

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  2. Bit mental, that one.

    Tragedy stories can be quite satisfying to write.

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    • Anna says:

      I wrote this on the plane back from Paris. It was the only thing distracting me enough to prevent me vomiting all over the children.

      Like

  3. sami116 says:

    Having reently read satanic verses, Ias half expecting an arch angel to come and save you.. but well….

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    • Anna says:

      Ah, I have no time for angels. I’m much too interested in marshmallows, and whatnot, the kind of stuff that can really save you.

      Like

  4. Anne Schilde says:

    And then I died! Yay! I wrote a disaster story (not nearly with your flash) the day of the bombs in Boston, but I just haven’t been able to hit publish on anything thing I’ve written in the last week. This is so refreshing! I love the cities like gargantuan skinny spiders.

    Like

    • Anna says:

      Thanks Anne, I’ve been much the same. The blue character in this was my excuse for publishing when I really didn’t want to. Nothing has been good enough recently. *Flails*

      Like

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