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Daily Deviation
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It has been a day and a half since the crash, and I have found a cabin. In some ways, this is a relief. I don’t know if I could face another night on the mountain without shelter. Outside, a fire does no good: the heat simply travels upwards. However, this place also raises some difficult questions. I estimate that I’ve put eight miles between myself and the crash site. I don’t know if this will be enough. It occurs to me that I don’t really know anything.
The survival manual recommends staying with the plane. It explains that this affords the best chance of rescue. It explains that the wreckage offers warmth and shade. It explains that seventy percent of pilots who stay are located within three days, while seventy percent of those who leave are never recovered. It does not explain what to do if the payload begins to leak.
Jenkins shouted after me as I ran, said it was our duty to defend the aircraft. I tried to warn him about the spur of wood protruding from the fuselage—no way it had failed to pierce the tank. Sometimes I wonder if I should have gone back, dragged him with me. Too late now.
The payload is colourless and odourless. Out of necessity, I have melted down some snow to drink. I can only hope that this is safe. The sky is silent. If they know where we are, they have not sent out a search.
There are cracks in the cabin walls. I have spent days looking for somewhere else to go, but have found nothing so far. I wonder about the fluid leaking slowly from the plane. It was supposed to be released as an aerosol. I don’t know what it will do, trickling across the land. I saw a dead vole lying in the snow today, but it’s too soon to have been a result of the leak. I hope it’s too soon.
The cracks in the walls seem to widen every day. Perhaps it’s because I have stayed so long. With no planes overhead, and the ever-present threat of the spreading leak, even the tiniest annoyance fills my mind and cannot be ignored. My small rations have run out, but there are cans of food in a cupboard by the window here. The labels are all foreign, and it’s strange to think that I’m behind enemy lines. I’ve forgotten everything that I was trained to do in this situation. It all seems pointless. There are no people to capture me here, though I almost wish there were. The only enemy is the one we brought, seeping through the hillside.
Today I saw a bird at the window, batting at the glass.
Many of the cans have rusted through and spoiled. The first one I opened spilled out something black and crumbly. The second and third were much the same. I am keeping the spoiled food outside, buried underneath the snow. While I have so little, I cannot throw anything away. I have a little snare wire in my survival tin, and could always use some bait.
With nothing left to eat, I have begun to hunt, but hold little hope. Today, I spent all morning stalking an ibex that I saw up on the ridge. But when I finally had it in the sights of my service pistol, I realised that it was sick. A healthy animal wouldn’t have let me get that close. Besides that, there were little cysts all down one side of its face. A thick rope of drool dangled from its bottom lip.
I should have walked farther. I should have put more distance between myself and the plane. Too late now.
The cracks really are widening. There’s one by my bed that I can put my hand through. When I first noticed it, I could barely see daylight on the other side. I think it’s the fire, drying out the wooden walls, but I cannot do without it. I would stop up the gaps, but I am wearing all the cloth I have. There were no sheets or blankets left here by the owners. I don’t know if it’s still safe here, but it’s too late to risk another move. The payload is colourless and odourless.
I shot Jenkins today. How he survived in the plane so long, nobody will ever know, but he wasn’t well. Whatever we were flying in, it did something to his brain. He was violent, incoherent, obviously contaminated. There was nothing else I could do. I’m aware I’ll be court martialled for this, if I’m ever found at all. I hope these notes will help my case. His body is in the stream—I couldn’t risk moving him.
There is almost no wall left now. By day, the sun streams through the spaces in the wood. By night, the wind blows through. On more than one occasion, the bird I saw has flown straight through the building. It has tumours on the backs of its wings. Whatever was in the plane, it is in here now too.
Someone is at the door.
Today I managed to trap an alpine hare. It was obviously contaminated, but there’s nothing else to eat. Also, I’m past caring. We brought this thing to the mountain. I suppose it’s our duty to stay here with it. Down by the stream, all the trees have died.
The cabin has exploded. It didn’t happen suddenly. The cracks just widened and widened until that was all there was. The walls are nothing but jagged splinters now, suspended in the air, and now I realise. I don’t need this place. The plane has taken everything—Jenkins, the cabin, the animals, the trees—and I can do without it. I am free.
Matches. Glue. Airplane wings. My pen is running out of ink.
Someone is at the door.
The survival manual recommends staying with the plane. It explains that this affords the best chance of rescue. It explains that the wreckage offers warmth and shade. It explains that seventy percent of pilots who stay are located within three days, while seventy percent of those who leave are never recovered. It does not explain what to do if the payload begins to leak.
Jenkins shouted after me as I ran, said it was our duty to defend the aircraft. I tried to warn him about the spur of wood protruding from the fuselage—no way it had failed to pierce the tank. Sometimes I wonder if I should have gone back, dragged him with me. Too late now.
***
The payload is colourless and odourless. Out of necessity, I have melted down some snow to drink. I can only hope that this is safe. The sky is silent. If they know where we are, they have not sent out a search.
***
There are cracks in the cabin walls. I have spent days looking for somewhere else to go, but have found nothing so far. I wonder about the fluid leaking slowly from the plane. It was supposed to be released as an aerosol. I don’t know what it will do, trickling across the land. I saw a dead vole lying in the snow today, but it’s too soon to have been a result of the leak. I hope it’s too soon.
***
The cracks in the walls seem to widen every day. Perhaps it’s because I have stayed so long. With no planes overhead, and the ever-present threat of the spreading leak, even the tiniest annoyance fills my mind and cannot be ignored. My small rations have run out, but there are cans of food in a cupboard by the window here. The labels are all foreign, and it’s strange to think that I’m behind enemy lines. I’ve forgotten everything that I was trained to do in this situation. It all seems pointless. There are no people to capture me here, though I almost wish there were. The only enemy is the one we brought, seeping through the hillside.
Today I saw a bird at the window, batting at the glass.
***
Many of the cans have rusted through and spoiled. The first one I opened spilled out something black and crumbly. The second and third were much the same. I am keeping the spoiled food outside, buried underneath the snow. While I have so little, I cannot throw anything away. I have a little snare wire in my survival tin, and could always use some bait.
***
With nothing left to eat, I have begun to hunt, but hold little hope. Today, I spent all morning stalking an ibex that I saw up on the ridge. But when I finally had it in the sights of my service pistol, I realised that it was sick. A healthy animal wouldn’t have let me get that close. Besides that, there were little cysts all down one side of its face. A thick rope of drool dangled from its bottom lip.
I should have walked farther. I should have put more distance between myself and the plane. Too late now.
***
The cracks really are widening. There’s one by my bed that I can put my hand through. When I first noticed it, I could barely see daylight on the other side. I think it’s the fire, drying out the wooden walls, but I cannot do without it. I would stop up the gaps, but I am wearing all the cloth I have. There were no sheets or blankets left here by the owners. I don’t know if it’s still safe here, but it’s too late to risk another move. The payload is colourless and odourless.
***
I shot Jenkins today. How he survived in the plane so long, nobody will ever know, but he wasn’t well. Whatever we were flying in, it did something to his brain. He was violent, incoherent, obviously contaminated. There was nothing else I could do. I’m aware I’ll be court martialled for this, if I’m ever found at all. I hope these notes will help my case. His body is in the stream—I couldn’t risk moving him.
***
There is almost no wall left now. By day, the sun streams through the spaces in the wood. By night, the wind blows through. On more than one occasion, the bird I saw has flown straight through the building. It has tumours on the backs of its wings. Whatever was in the plane, it is in here now too.
***
Someone is at the door.
***
Today I managed to trap an alpine hare. It was obviously contaminated, but there’s nothing else to eat. Also, I’m past caring. We brought this thing to the mountain. I suppose it’s our duty to stay here with it. Down by the stream, all the trees have died.
***
The cabin has exploded. It didn’t happen suddenly. The cracks just widened and widened until that was all there was. The walls are nothing but jagged splinters now, suspended in the air, and now I realise. I don’t need this place. The plane has taken everything—Jenkins, the cabin, the animals, the trees—and I can do without it. I am free.
***
Matches. Glue. Airplane wings. My pen is running out of ink.
***
Someone is at the door.
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I wash off sick-sweet orange lipstick in front of a mirror as dusty as gothic romances. It tastes like oblivion, that is to say, like nothing my tongue can detect.
The door opens with a creak no private restroom could emulate. Some chick with blue bobbed hair and smeared eyeliner. I looked like that once. Ten years ago.
Getting the beer out of my hair is harder. Some men just can't take it when I'd rather they not kiss my feet or call me an angel or-
“Dayum girl, you look like a goddess.”
I gulp, taste of acid.
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I can't leave. I've hidden as well as I can. A small shadow between the brac
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Debra Mae was an astonishingly good programmer.
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Flash Fiction Month, Day 30.
I think the thing I like best about Flash Fiction Month is that it forces you to write stories you wouldn't normally take a chance on. Sometimes they're stories you'd never think of to begin with, other times they're stories you thought of a while ago and just didn't use. I've been considering writing this one pretty much every other day since the start of July.
Also, though it's not at all related to this story itself, there's a fun, doesn't-count-for-anything FFM challenge today that invites you to write some kind of 55 word response to another of today's stories. I couldn't help but go for namelesshe's amusing Dungeons and Dragons piece. It's based on a true story!
You can find the rest of today's flash fiction here: fav.me/d6fqxuq .
And all my stories from last year are collected here: www.smashwords.com/books/view/… .
Edit: A DD? Well that's a pleasant surprise! Thanks to Beccalicious for featuring it. If anybody's interested in reading the rest of my stories from this year's Flash Fiction Month, they're now collected as a free ebook at www.smashwords.com/books/view/… . If you'd rather just read online, you can find them all here on dA: damonwakes.deviantart.com/gall… .
I think the thing I like best about Flash Fiction Month is that it forces you to write stories you wouldn't normally take a chance on. Sometimes they're stories you'd never think of to begin with, other times they're stories you thought of a while ago and just didn't use. I've been considering writing this one pretty much every other day since the start of July.
Also, though it's not at all related to this story itself, there's a fun, doesn't-count-for-anything FFM challenge today that invites you to write some kind of 55 word response to another of today's stories. I couldn't help but go for namelesshe's amusing Dungeons and Dragons piece. It's based on a true story!
You can find the rest of today's flash fiction here: fav.me/d6fqxuq .
And all my stories from last year are collected here: www.smashwords.com/books/view/… .
Edit: A DD? Well that's a pleasant surprise! Thanks to Beccalicious for featuring it. If anybody's interested in reading the rest of my stories from this year's Flash Fiction Month, they're now collected as a free ebook at www.smashwords.com/books/view/… . If you'd rather just read online, you can find them all here on dA: damonwakes.deviantart.com/gall… .
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I'll be blunt here: I didn't get the ending. What was the contamination which affected his mind? I'll admit that the story was well written, and the character layout as well as the description of the environment and even the character's actions were very well handled, I personally wonder what the main cause of "mania" in the case of the character was. I'm assuming that the ending "door" was "heaven's door", but I wonder whose knocking on the first door. It isn't explained in very much detail in this story, and I find it still has room for improvement in my honest opinion anyway. For what its worth, it does deserve recognition, but I have my reservations in calling it the most awesome thing you've written thus far.
Its between fine and good enough - fine to be an independent, decently laid and well characterized protagonist first person perspective story with clearly defined motives, plot, and even a touch of background added, but good enough because it lacks a few aspects in its ending which make the beginning and the well handled middle portion fall short because of the rushed ending. Do consider going back to this work whenever you can - it can easily be remedied. Frankly speaking.
Its between fine and good enough - fine to be an independent, decently laid and well characterized protagonist first person perspective story with clearly defined motives, plot, and even a touch of background added, but good enough because it lacks a few aspects in its ending which make the beginning and the well handled middle portion fall short because of the rushed ending. Do consider going back to this work whenever you can - it can easily be remedied. Frankly speaking.