David Klein's Blog, page 56

HAMNET — Maggie O’Farrell

This novel came highly recommended to me and I can see why. A reimagining of the life of William Shakespeare’s family—focused primarily on his wife, Agnes, and his son, Hamnet—the writing in this novel is almost as lyrical and eloquent as the Bard of Avon himself delivered.

Although I found the beginning was overwritten and a bit hard to get into, soon enough I became deeply absorbed. The beauty and power of the writing carried the novel during those times the narrative could not.

This novel centers on grief: how Agnes and her husband, who is never named other than being referred to as the “Latin tutor”, individually and together deal with the death of their son Hamnet, who succumbs to the plague (a fitting theme for 2020). I’m giving nothing away here: the novel begins with a historical note about Hamnet dying at age eleven.

This telegraphing, which occurs several times over the course of the novel regarding other events, such as when Agnes gives birth to the twins Hamnet and Judith, is the story’s weakness, and made me impatient at times because O’Farrell attempts to create suspense where none exists.

Example: having Judith near death due to the plague and then Hamnet being the one that dies– while an amazing sequence of writing and turn of events–didn’t carry the suspense it could have.

However, so powerful was the exploration and impact of grief, the details of life and living conditions in the 16th century, and Agnes herself. She was such a strong, vivid character, as were her brother Bartholomew, stepmother Joan, father-in-law John, and both Hamnet and Judith.

The ending is perfectly done, but I won’t give this part away, because the author doesn’t either.

4/5 Stars.

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Christmas Babies

That’s me on the left, Julia on the right, both of us born on Christmas, 40 years apart. What better birthday gift can a father receive–a daughter born on his birthday.

Extreme gratitude to Harriet, for enduring a torturously long labor to give us a Christmas baby, and to my own mother, Irene. I was her second Christmas baby, three years after my brother Peter was born.

Happy birthday Julia, Peter, and you too, Annie. We’re a club of our own.

The post Christmas Babies appeared first on by David Klein.

It’s Not About the Squid

We spent Christmas Even at my grandmother’s. Suzie and Anthony lived in a modest house in a working class neighborhood, 19th Street in Niagara Falls. On our drive there we would pass the Hooker Chemical and Carborundum plants, five of us kids in the car breathing the industrial fumes and agreeing the scent was sweet and perfumey, and then arriving at Grandma’s and entering a house smelling of garlic and squid—another scent that will always trigger my memories of Niagara Falls.

My mom and her mom prepared the traditional Italian dinner of fishes: stuffed calamari, fried fish, and macaroni with anchovies.

I loved all the dishes, even as a kid, but the squid was the showstopper, and it looked weird. Pale tubes stuffed with breadcrumb and Romano cheese and garlic and parsley. A twist of purple tentacles holding the stuffing in place. Baked in the oven with a little braising liquid so the tubes don’t dry out before the tentacles were fully cooked.

After dinner it was time for presents. My unmarried Auntie Jay, a beautician with dyed pink hair, lived with my grandmother. We had to watch her open a million gifts of soaps and scents and nail polishes given to her by her customers at the beauty shop. Not one of those gifts held my interest.

The fake silver tree sparkled in the corner. The wrappings landed everywhere. We kids got envelopes with a few dollars. I was the fourth of five in my family and that end of the birthing order got less, maybe two dollars instead of three, or three singles instead of the coveted five-dollar bill.

At some point my mother took over hosting Christmas Eve, and the stuffed squid was always the focal point, because it was the one day of the year we’d have that dish. My grandmother and Auntie Jay drove to our home in Buffalo, a half hour away from Niagara Falls. Some of my Niagara Falls cousins would come, maybe Uncle Carl if he was in town that year, and if he was, the liquor cabinet got opened a bit wider, the volume on the table conversation turned a little louder. I’d hear a few Italian phrases followed by laughter, something only the adults could understand.

Year over year, I looked forward to the comforting scents and tastes of Christmas Eve.

Soon, we all grew up and moved away and my Mom died and I moved again and again, different states, different people, and I didn’t make it home for as many Christmas Eves and the traditional fishes were no longer on the whatever menu I was eating off of that day. Some of my siblings kept up the tradition with their families, but the era had ended.

Then about twenty years ago, nineteen years ago, I’m not sure, Christmas Eve came back. We were living in a town where we had no extended family and our kids were babies, just a couple years old at most. We didn’t have family but we had our friends the Prellers, also with young kids, and we had them over for a low-key Christmas Eve dinner. I made stuffed squid for the first time, not exactly like my Mom did—mine were braised in tomatoes and wine and sliced to present something slightly more appealing than an inner tube. Tentacles were still featured, of course. The garlicky scent still very much the same.

The squid was yummy once again, but the squid wasn’t the point. The point was Christmas Eve with your people. The Barretts joined us a few years later and our three families have been doing Christmas Eve ever since, taking turns hosting. We have ambitious and talented cooks among us. We serve seafood in many varieties and presentations: scallop ceviche, tuna tartare, smoke salmon. Some years I make squid if the muse strikes, but not every year.

When the kids were little we fed them first and put on a movie so the rest of us could be adults for a while. Soon the families started eating together. We’ve added fun games. We’ve begun putting in money for charities. Our kids became young adults.

Christmas Eve was the one day we all got together and it has again become a long-standing ritual for me, just as it had been in my childhood.

Last year, Julia and Owen said it was the best Christmas Eve ever. I think it’s the accumulation of memories, the deep appreciation for others, and the desire for ritual and tradition that inspires us.

This Christmas Eve will be different.

This year we’re going to meet in a driveway around a fire and bring our own drinks and make a dish to share that each of us can take home and add to our individual family dinners. No stuffed squid—it’s not a dish everyone appreciates, and I’m not really up for making it.

Covid has forced us outdoors and restricted our plans. It’s supposed to rain this afternoon, hard. It’s supposed to be a bad day to be raising a glass outside. Still: tradition, togetherness, I want it to continue.

One hand to raise the glass, one hand to hold my umbrella.  

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Attic Drinking: Go Ahead, Judge Me!

One of the best, or perhaps only, things I like about Facebook is having been in touch with a few friends from my long-ago past, people I will likely never again see in my lifetime.

Recently my old friend Russ sent me a video from many years ago. I think I was fourteen or fifteen at the time this home movie—“Attic Drinking”—was shot.

When I first watched the video I laughed heartily and I loved seeing these high school friends I haven’t seen in decades, but I also experienced negative, shaming feelings. How could I have behaved in this appalling fashion—and at such a young age?

I keep asking myself why I’m willing to share this video. For a few laughs? Maybe. But a part of me is cringing inside. As a cautionary tale to other young people? Perhaps. But I’ve managed to live a reasonable life. It’s not like those days as a young and defiant teenager served as the harbinger of my personal ruin.

I guess I’m posting the video as a way to own my past behavior. We all have to take measures of ourselves and hold ourselves accountable: this is who I was, today is who I am.

I’ve shown the video to Harriet and to my two young adult children. I didn’t expect they would find it so entertaining, even harmless. Could it be I’m still a decent husband/father in their eyes?

Sorry, had to remove link for now due to outside influences.

Not everyone is so pleased with this video being “out there.” One of my friends who appears in the video posted a private and cautionary message on Facebook. He’s a VIP who thinks people still care about back then. Maybe he’s planning a later-in-life run for political office. My apologies. Me—I’m just a writer. I’ve already put myself out there, my heart naked and exposed for the world to see. And to judge. If you want to.

A note on the video: It’s short, just three minutes, with no sound. In the first segment, I’m wearing a dark sweater with a strange striping around the collar and down the front. Following a brief and inexplicable interlude showing some animals a the Buffalo Zoo (real animals, not us boys), I appear in the second segment in the St. Joseph Marauders sweatshirt, doing my college prep high school proud!

Watch it here. (no, sorry. I had to remove link for now).

The post Attic Drinking: Go Ahead, Judge Me! appeared first on by David Klein.

Pandemic Puzzling

With the pandemic raging and many people staying home when possible, jigsaw puzzles have become a popular pastime. There’s even been a shortage of them.

I’ve been doing jigsaw puzzles for years, with both trepidation and determination. Do jigsaw newbies really know what they’re in for?

The Hero’s Journey

Whenever I work on a puzzle, especially those 1,000-piecers, it’s like I’m undergoing the classic hero’s journey. Maybe not a journey on an Odysseus scale, maybe not quite so heroic, but a test of courage and fortitude nonetheless: a call to action, initial reluctance, acceptance of the challenge, conquering obstacles, eventual victory.

I’m always reluctant to start a puzzle because the task seems daunting, if not impossible. I open the box and all those random, meaningless individual pieces fill me with apprehension. I think: I’ll never be able to do this. This will never become a coherent whole.

And this is supposed to be a way to relax?

I have to remind myself I love jigsaw puzzles.

It’s all chaos in the beginning



Getting a Feel for Things

I start feeling around inside the box, I start picking out edge pieces or pieces that clearly denote specific parts of the image. Soon I’m spilling out pieces onto my puzzle board and trays. Turning pieces over, scanning, sorting, creating piles, beginning to hunt.

I get a few pieces together. A few more. The frame takes shape. Some of the easier elements are assembled. Before long, I’m in deep. There’s a tactile reward of holding and handling the pieces. A visual reward of identifying colors, patterns, and spatial relationships. Even a meditative aspect when focused on the task.

One of the comforts of working on a jigsaw is that you can control the outcome. You may face challenges along the way (is this sky or sea?), even moments of despair (these pieces all look the same!), but if you keep trying you can finish and I almost guarantee you’ll experience a great sense of relief and accomplishment. All from a jigsaw puzzle!

Working on puzzles is also a flexible activity. You can spend hours at a time bent over a puzzle (achy back and neck), or a few minutes here and there as you walk by and the puzzle grabs your attention. You can work on the puzzle alone or with others. Pandemic shortages aside, with many puzzles to choose from, you can find an image that appeals to you and a piece count that falls within your interest or skill set.

Reef Rush Hour



The reward is worth the effort.

This most recent puzzle is called Reef Rush Hour. My sisters and I share puzzles, and this one came from Keyna, via Susan. The image has a lot going on.

Unlike some puzzles that offer large areas to work on, such as mountains or meadows or the big red barn, this puzzle has many small parts. You have to go fishing (pun) from the very beginning: find the pieces that look like this kind of fish, find the pieces that look like that kind of fish, and slowly assemble the different components and then attach the sections together as the puzzle expands.

And when you’re finished, you can feel like a hero. Small victories are still wins.

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THE VANISHING HALF, Brit Bennett

THE VANISHING HALF appeared on a number of top 10 books of the year lists and it’s easy to see why. The novel has all the ingredients for a successful novel in 2020: Racial themes explored in the story of light-skinned Black twin sisters—Stella and Desiree—whose lives diverge when one decides to live as white and the other “stays” Black; a secondary, transgender theme and subplot; an up-and-coming Black woman author.

Aside from these aspects that the publishing industry is working hard to promote recently, the novel also benefits from beautiful writing at the sentence level, its deep-dives into the lives and minds of its characters, and a structure that effortlessly spans time and shifts in points of view.

It’s a pleasure to read. The most compelling part of the novel to me is the decision by Stella to live as white: how she recognized and responded to the opportunity, and how she wrestled with the impact of that decision through her life. To me, it was the central conflict of the novel, which made everything else somewhat less interesting.

The novel steps away from Stella and Desiree to focus on their children—Stella’s privileged “white” daughter Kennedy, and Desiree’s very dark daughter, Jude, who is in a relationship with Reese, a transgender man. Somehow, Kennedy and Jude coincidentally meet, which is a forgivable literary device early in  the novel, but unacceptable when it happens a second time later in the novel and in time—running into each other in New York City, population of eight million or so? The lack of agency in the characters is a weak point that could have been avoided by eliminating coincidence and replacing it with motivation.

While the narrative of Kennedy and Jude is interesting as they explore and redefine racial identities and their relationship to each other, the more compelling conflict and inevitable reunion between their mothers gets back-burnered until towards the end. That made the last third of the novel drag for me a bit because you know it’s coming, and the reunion is handled a little too softly and emotionally for my taste, although it might unfold perfectly for other readers.

Still, the premise of the novel is so strong, the characters are richly drawn—even the minor ones—and the writing is fresh. Totally worth a read.

4/5 Stars

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From an Old Story That Still Resonates with Me

Anyone reading this blog will notice I’ve taken an interest in flash fiction, which goes by a variety of names and definitions, but I consider it fiction under 1000 words.

I’ve been reading flash, and trying my hand. Push Yourself Up! was a first attempt. I’ve also gone looking through some of my old writing to fish for ideas, snippets, anything that sparks my attention and could give me some practice. Lottery Night in America spawned from the first chapter of THE CULLING.

Time Ceases to Exist is a snippet from FLIGHT RISK.

Then while searching through other old work I picked up a copy of Storyquarterly where I had a story published many (many) years ago. It wasn’t my first published work, but it was my first to appear in a well-known and highly-regarded literary journal.

It was also the first time I worked with a real editor. We mailed annotated manuscripts back and forth during the editing process. I didn’t know what STET meant and I guessed at some change the editor might have wanted. They wrote back and told me STET is an obelism used to override another editing mark on a manuscript, and it means “let it stand.” In other words, no change, despite my attempts to make several.

In the story, “The Painter’s Son,” a man in his late twenties looks back on his complicated relationship with his father. The accompanying photo shows the first page of the story. (Tony is the family cat.) It probably wouldn’t be appropriate now to write “Chinese people wearing wide-brimmed hats and silk robes . . .”

The “Painter’s Son” was the first of my work that Harriet read. I think it helped her fall in love with me a little bit more. Lucky me.

The characters in “The Painter’s Son” stuck with me. I wasn’t finished with it, even after publication. I thought the story needed to be expanded. So much so that I turned it into a novel called STILL LIFE. In the novel, the main character, Vincent, has to contend with his father tracking him down after ten years of no contact, at a time when Vincent is trying to emerge as an artist and navigate being in love.

I had an agent that loved STILL LIFE and represented it, but no publisher bit.

Here are two tiny excerpts from the novel. In the first, a young Vincent takes a walk on the frozen lake in front of his house. In the next, he’s trying to teach the woman he loves how to ice skate.

I went for a walk on the lake, which was frozen and covered with snow. On one windswept spot near the middle the ice felt maybe only an inch or so thick. I stared down, trying to see through, and noticed leaves trapped in the layers. When the first sheet of ice forms, if the wind hasn’t rippled the new crystals, there is a day or two, sometimes only a few hours, when the ice becomes both a mirror and a window. Look from one angle and you see the bottom of the lake—the murk and old logs and bloated plants—then from another angle, just by blinking, you can see the reflected clouds and sun, at night the moon and pinpoint stars.

I took another step and the ice cracked beneath my feet and immediately I dropped down to spread out my weight. There is nothing like the sound of ice giving way; there is a subdued, muffled popping, as if from underneath a blanket, and you can hear the percussion fade as the crack grows longer. Usually there are smaller aftershocks, like echoes or the creaking of a door slowly closing. I crawled and dragged along the ice toward shore, and heard another crack behind me. I turned and saw water seeping through the crack, pooling and spreading like blood from a wound. When I got to the thicker part I stood up and made it back.

I wasn’t as terrified as you might think. My father used me to test the ice every year, reasoning that I was smaller and lighter than him and therefore the ideal recruit for the mission. If I was able to walk out on the ice without a problem—such as the ice cracking or me falling through and drowning—he’d then have me stomp up and down, and if that worked out okay then he’d come out on the ice with me. I was his canary in a coal mine.





I thought it would be easy to teach her. Her muscles are strong enough; at least she's not skating on her ankles. And Jane’s not timid, either. She just can't move. When she leads with one skate, the blade peeks out like the head of a turtle, then sneaks back in.

I’m struggling to come up with step-by-step instructions for the continuous, fluid dance of ice-skating. I know at what point to bend my knee, when to push forward, stretch my calf, enter the glide, when to pump. I know how to rhythm my hips and swing my arms. I've skated for almost as long as I've walked, and I don't remember learning how, only knowing how, and I'm not doing a very professional job transferring this expertise to Jane.

Try putting weight on it, I tell her. Push forward. Don’t let your feet slip behind you.

Jane forces the blade out there again, where it stops. She drags her other skate forward to catch up.

How do you teach glide, I wonder, how do you learn balance? I circle around, take her hands and skate backwards, pulling her along. She's bent forward, her skates moving only because I'm pulling her. I turn and skate alongside her now, an arm around her waist, telling her to try a few strides, put a leg out, sway those hips some, fan your fanny.

Suddenly she glides away from the pressure I'm putting into her back. Her arms flap like wings, but she stays up. Her strides are tiny and precarious as a baby's first steps. A step and a glide. Step, step, glide. I hold her hand and we go like this for fifty yards, then one hundred, along green, glassy ice as hard as diamonds.

The post From an Old Story That Still Resonates with Me appeared first on by David Klein.

Lottery Night in America

On Lottery nights Maren Hart ran the tower stairs. Her comscreen sleeve remained strapped to her forearm, with notifications muted.

While the Lottery opening credits were broadcasting onto hundreds of millions of screens, Maren pushed through the fire door at the end of the corridor on the fifty-eighth floor of the Atria Tower where she lived. The stairwell air tasted stale, recirculated, due to inadequate fresh-air vents.

You could get used to bad air, as you could to almost anything else.

She placed her foot on the first tread, rocked back and forth, and launched herself, charging up the first flight, turning, running up the next.

Because she was running, Maren missed the raising of the rebranded flag and the playing of the revised national anthem. She didn’t hear the co-hosts—Marshall Kent and Victoria Thiem—adhering to their script about honor, equality, and sacrifice. They welcomed America to this week’s broadcast and introduced the American Patron who would choose tonight’s Lottery dates prior to his reporting.

Maren didn’t watch the recitation of the Lottery rules, which everyone knew word-for-word anyway, and often repeated along with Victoria, as if the rules were a chant that could protect them. Four dates of the year will be chosen at random, after which the official calculated coefficient for the week will be announced, followed by the delivery of notices.

Resting only for a moment at the top floor to catch her breath, Maren began the trek down from seventy-six. She could descend faster than climb, but while the ascent burned her muscles, the descent stressed her joints. When she reached sub-seven, she stopped to rest. There was a parking garage here for those who could afford their own autonomous vehicle. There were rows of secure residential storage units, one of them belonging to Maren, where she had packed away mementos, first of Peter, and later of Hollande, and not once has she unlocked the door and looked through those boxes, but neither could she toss them away, much like her memories of her husband and daughter: too painful to ponder, too cherished to forsake.

The other sub floors housed retail stores, offices, and even apartments now that sub-residency was becoming popular. For a while, she and Peter had talked about selling their unit on fifty-eight and moving sub. You gave up windows. You lived underground, like moles or worms. But you saved money, important at the time, after Peter lost his position as a history professor. Maren, a director at a charitable foundation, earned a decent salary, although the future of the foundation was at risk. Then Peter came up with another plan to help support the family.

She began the grueling climb back up to her apartment. She didn’t hear the name of the American Patron as he was introduced. He was young for a Proffer, only twenty-two, and appeared healthy and educated. He was likely chosen for this role because more young volunteers were needed to balance the numbers and his presence might encourage others.

Maren missed the American Patron’s allotted one-minute speech during which he dedicated this honor to his sister and her children, for whom he was proffering. He remained remarkably poised, until the end, when his voice broke, but he didn’t collapse or embarrass himself. When finished, he stepped forward, flanked by Marshall and Victoria, and pressed the computer key to randomly choose four dates—and the citizens of the United State of America collectively held their breath, rubbed their charms, and prayed for luck.

Maren ascended past the commercial floors—the businesses and markets and services. Her legs wobbled, her lungs strained for oxygen. Ten more flights to the residential floors. Sweat spilled down her face, her heart hammered, adrenaline pumped—this much she had in common with those watching the Lottery.

She wasn’t watching when the four dates were selected and didn’t know that her birthday—February 5—came up as the third of four dates drawn.

She didn’t hear the announcement that this week’s Lottery coefficient was .07862 and above. Maren’s coefficient was currently .07878, and therefore by birthdate and coefficient she qualified for this Lottery. She didn’t know any of this because whenever the Lottery broadcast, Maren ran the stairs. She had two years immunity remaining. For now, she was protected. That much she knew.

However, she didn’t know the rules about submitting immunity credentials had changed: you now had only a 30-minute grace period from the time you were notified of your Lottery selection to the deadline for applying for immunity.

On the last few staircases she grabbed the railing and staggered. The point was to mentally numb herself through physical exhaustion. This is how she battled her anxiety and grief, and it was effective for as long as she was running and for a short while after, the endorphins silky in her system.

She finally reached her floor. She pushed through the stairwell door and shuffled along the quiet corridor, her legs protesting each step. She turned the corner and encountered a group of five people coming the opposite way toward the elevator banks, laughing and heading out for a night of celebration. It must not have been their birthdates chosen.

Only when she reactivated her comscreen sleeve to unlock her apartment door did she see the official notification from Command she’d been selected in the Lottery and had twenty-four hours to report. Despite her immunity, the notice carved a hollow well of fear into her chest, a sinking, paralyzing feeling.

She thought of Peter, which was not the same as thanking him for proffering and earning her a period of immunity.

Her door swung on its pressure hinges to electronically lock behind her. Unaware she had less than a minute remaining in her 30-minute window—if she’d paused to get a drink first, or go to the bathroom, her fate would have been quite different—she tapped in her immunity code and received confirmation she was exempt from this Lottery drawing.

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The Blue Period

Pablo Picasso had a blue period, from 1901-1904, which started with the death of a close friend. During this period he produced almost exclusively monochromatic paintings in shades of blue and blue-green, only occasionally warmed by other colors. At the time, he achieved little success at the time with these paintings, which might be hard to believe now.

As he gradually emerged from his depression, Picasso entered a rose period, where he began to use warmer colors in his work.

Then, there was “De Daumier-Smith’s Blue Period”, the story by J.D. Salinger about a lonely and alienated young man whose narcissism and pretentiousness insulate him from his own suffering. Eventually, the protagonist transcends his self-absorption and misanthropy through epiphanies that reveal to him the presence of God.

I wonder am I entering a blue period. First, I painted the back of my bookshelves blue. Then I put blue lights on the outside of the house for the holiday season, saying they represented the blue wave I want to see in our country but haven’t yet. Also, I’m self-absorbed, like Salinger’s character.

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Time Ceases to Exist

The plane nosed down once more and Robert caught a glimpse of the markers leading up to the runway. They were going to be short. They were a second or two from impact. And here came the amazing thing about the moment of death: time doesn’t slow down—it ceases to exist. You can experience the regret of not kissing your wife goodbye that morning. You can remember a family trip to St. John you didn’t take because you were too busy, which leads you to thinking you’ve missed out, you’ve barely lived, you’ve worked and worked and never strayed from your path, and now you fear you’ve wasted your life, you had your priorities all wrong, you haven’t loved enough, you haven’t experienced enough adventure whatever adventure might mean, you haven’t taken the road not taken because you’ve stayed on the road you were on, you haven’t taken risks because you’re not a risk-taker, you haven’t explored because you’re not an explorer, you haven’t followed your dreams because you’re not a dreamer. You played your life safe. You didn’t get your pilot’s license or restore that Mustang parked in your garage or visit Thailand or father a second child. You lived a nomadic life in service of your career and you didn’t cultivate lifelong friendships. You didn’t perform volunteer work and help others. You’re nothing and have been nothing all along, and you’ve blown your one and only chance to be alive and feel alive, to quench your existential thirst on the very essence of life. So you might as well die. You deserve to die. And then your mind snaps back and you remember how lucky you’ve been to have an amazing wife and a sensitive, compassionate daughter, and what more can any man ask for, what more makes for a rich and meaningful life. You can repeat a mantra of I love you I love you. You can see the people across the aisle from you clutching each other as they face annihilation, you can see a flight attendant grimace against the most extreme and unlikeliest of occupational hazards. All of this: thinking, feeling, seeing. Doubting your life; affirming your life. And yet no time at all has passed. Time does not exist. You’ve hardly gulped a breath. He had thought about his death before—who hasn’t? Not so much dwelling on how or when he was going to die, but how he would handle the moment when death arrived and the eternal unknown was upon him, and he had hoped and believed he would handle it well, face forward and head up like a man, with the pride and honor of a life well-lived, with the courage and acceptance that must accompany all that is inevitable.

He is no longer buckled in his seat. He has risen above the aircraft and is separated from his body, suspended in the sky. He is totally at ease and peaceful, filled with a calm, cottony weightlessness, looking down at the plane, the silver fuselage and wings, the red painted tail fin. He can see the long stretch of runway that remains too far away, the grassy meridians on either side, and in the farther distance the airport control tower sticking up like a mushroom from the terminal. Warm—he is so warm and comfortable. He is wrapped in sunshine, cradled in comfort. It’s like being in a hot tub, jets on full, and lowering your head underwater and you hear the water rushing around you and through you, except instead of sinking he is soaring, all these sensations he can feel so distinctly and yet he has detached from his body and is floating above the imminent disaster below. He can see inside the cabin now: the fear, the terror, the sickness, the lips moving in prayer, the begging, the passengers braced and trembling, and he can see himself alone with his seat belt buckled, sitting up straight with his head turned to the side and staring out the window as if this were any other landing on a perfect summer morning under a cloudless sky, although he knows it won’t be any other landing, and that the plane is going to crash, and he is going to die.

He’s reached that moment of preparation. He’s not going to plead his way out of this, make promises to better himself and the lives of those around him in exchange for survival. He’s done the best he could with what he had. His wife is working again, his daughter becoming an adult. It’s okay if he leaves. They will be fine. He is ready to accept his fate.  Except he’s not. No! I don’t want to die! I want more life! Which plants him back in his seat at the instant the plane smacks the runway.

He is engulfed in violent, thunderous mayhem. The plane lifts again, slams down a second time. There is a horrendous scraping sound. The impact hurls Robert toward the ceiling; his seatbelt holds. Another explosive boom. The rear of the aircraft swings forward and the plane begins skipping sideways along the runway. The walls of the cabin shake apart, windows blow out. Luggage explodes from the overhead compartments. Oxygen masks fling from the ceiling. The noise is overwhelming. A subway screeching on its rails. A tornado screaming through a trailer park. Robert looks up just in time to see something hit the flight attendant in her face. He watches her forehead bloom red and then he’s wrenched to the side and his head strikes the window with enough force to crack the glass.

The aircraft skitters off the runway and spins onto a grassy area and the tail section breaks off. One wing tips up steeply and seems to drift back to the ground, and the plane comes to a sudden, thudding standstill, pitched at an angle like a slanted room in a funhouse.

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