Status Updates From Por los aires

De momento no me está gustando ningún relato....alguno un poco mejor pero la mayoría soporíferos...si sigue así creo que lo abandonaré

Now an interesting second story by A. Conan Doyle, written just thirty years after the birth of aviation. The first tale contained much pathos and grue.

This is very fresh. It has that 1960s feel to it - a little reckless, a little bizarre, a grab for optimism in the shadow of a doom. In a blind test, I'd never have guessed this was Christie.

CARGO by E. Michael Lewis ★★★★
What gives this horror story an extra shiver factor is how firmly grounded it is in reality. Almost everthinng in the could be explained by the impact of the horrific events in Jonestown. The almost is important. It's the dark crevice where doubt and fear lurk. The gap between what we tell ourselve is possible and what the hairs on the back of our neck believe might be happening.

I’m temporarily shelving this book.

It’s the second Non-Fiction in a row that I have put on my DNF shelf, not because it’s rubbish, in fact the exact opposite - it’s very good, but I am not in the right headspace to enjoy, or more importantly, understand it.

This is the Stephen King universe, of course, where character named Jenkins in the Langoliars muses that you can’t appear in the Texas State school book depository on November 22, 1963 and put a stop to the Kennedy assassination, so such things shouldn’t come as a surprise, but it did. Period. I love that kind of discovered symmetry.

But there are times, so the emperor, more sadly still, when one must lose a little beauty. If one is to keep a little beauty one already has I do not fear you, yourself, but I fear another man what man? Some other man who seeing you will build a thing of bright papers and bamboo like this, but the other man will have an evil face and an evil heart And the beauty will be gone. It is this man I fear.

…. hoping his sister will understand and forgive him. There’s a loud noise in the war comes pouring out of his head. Just another old fart, self-destructing. Except that now I can hear the sounds, too. Sounds like cannot be mistaken for anything else. Now I see strange black shapes in the night sky. Hungry, still unsatiated, coming back for more.

An old man rips out his hearing aid in the world fall silent the mantle clock stops ticking, the outside world goes away, the creek sound settling lumber of his home, cease their punctuation of the night, and he is left alone with the sound of the warbird. He finishes his bourbon, snubs his lucky and pull the trigger with closed and tearless eyes, hoping his sister will understand and forgive him….

Ryan smiled at them, forgetting he was wearing a mask and threw up the door. He tried to explain, but they didn’t see him at all. They fell to their knees, choking on red phlegm. He pushed past them and skipped down the stairs to kneel and kiss the tarmac with a forked black tongue. It was so good, after all his wandering, to be home…

They climbed each other to reach his lips. The narrow fanged mouth only allowed one at a time, and they were beyond counting. They cuddled up his shivering body and into the gate of Teeth, but he could fill them piling up inside his belly, restless, hungry for trouble, and he could feel a whole New World, cold, black, and infinite, inside. Before the last one disappeared into his mouth, the 727 touchdown.

Numbly, he picked up the mask, seeing too late with new eyes. It was not a trinket or a treasure, or a mask. It was a door. The blood he had spilled had opened it. To let them leave this place, the door only had to open again. It was simple, when there was no other choice, but to accept. Ryan put the mask on his face. The hard, rough inner surface, caressed him with splinters that grew in intertwined under his skin.

It was a hideously malignant face, a face not human. Its skin was grimy, of a wide poured coarseness, its nose, a squat, discolored lump, its lips misshapen, and cracked, forced apart by teeth of a grotesque size and crookedness, it’s eyes recessed and small, unblinking. All framed by shaggy, tangled hair, which sprouted, too, in furry toughs from the man’s ears and nose, bird like, down across his cheeks.

Commercial air travel has all the charm and excitement of a colorectal exam. Modern airports tend to be overcrowded zoos, where patience and ordinary courtesy are tested to the breaking point. Flights are delayed, flights are canceled, luggage is tossed around like beanbags, and on many occasions does not arrive with passengers who desperately desire, clean shirts or even just one fresh set of underwear.

Dico solo: meno male che non devo prendere un aereo a breve.

Estoy buscando razones para no dejar tirado este libro 🙄😔

Nightmare at 20,000 feet was okay, the next is The Flying Machine

I’m have read the first 2 tales. They were good. The next tale is Nightmare at 20,000 feet.

#PorLosAiresEnSalemsLot

الآلة الطائرة/ راي برادبري ⭐⭐⭐

لديكم الإذن/ جو هيل ⭐⭐⭐

الفئة الخامسة/توم بيسيل
This story went over my head 😶

لوسيفر/ إيدوين تشارلز
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐👍🏻❤

كابوس علي إرتفاع 6,000 متر// ريتشارد ماثيسون
⭐⭐⭐

ME ENCANTO EL TERCER RELATOOO, MEN I REALLY FEEL THAT

Me ha encantado estee, ese fragmento del final me puso los pelos de punta !

Primer relato: Cargamento
7/10 vamos bienn, interesante pero no me despertó ninguna sensación desagradable uu

رعب الإرتفاعات/ آرثر كونان دويل
⭐⭐

الحمولة/ إ.مايكل لويس
⭐⭐⭐

Great to read while on a flight!