Riders on the Storm by Augusto Corvalan

Riders on the Storm

by Augusto Corvalan

"Listen, a real story doesn't say anything; it just ticks off the possibilities. Opens all doors. You can walk through any one that suits you."

--Jim Morrison

Planes crash all the time.

Why, with the fury of lightning, the madness of wind, shouldn't it happen today? Right now? Someone has to be in a plane crash. Why shouldn't it be me?

We rode the storm bravely. Some of us sat in silence, tightening our nervous grip on the armrests. Others prayed, or tried to continue normal conversations as if nothing was happening. The pilots did their best, jerking the controls this way and that. It wasn't enough. The direction of the wind, the temperature at the moment, the atmospheric pressure, the conditions were not suitable to keep a colossal hunk of metal and plastic airborne. The plane went down, swallowed by the sea like a morsel for the gargantuan Charybdis.

We were mourned by friends and family and anyone we might have touched.

We became nostalgia, stories to be told, pictures to be shown…

We rode the storm safely. The seatbelt signs dimmed and people relaxed. A charismatic attendant rolled around a cart and offered smiles and drinks. She rolled up to me, flashing all her teeth, her brown eyes as enticing as the alcohol she was offering.

Unexpected turbulence.

The attendant fell away from me. The cart tipped and smashed on the floor. The man behind me, seeing his chance, jumped out of his seat, wielding a gun as if it was a knife. I closed my eyes. I had always wanted to die in a darkened room.

I jumped at him, trying to wrest the deadly instrument out of his hands. There was a gunshot. It pierced my chest. I collapsed, my black shirt damp with blood and fear. Other passengers subdued the man.

I was mourned, by friends and family and anyone I might have touched. I was captured by the flashing cameras and the rambling news hosts. I was lucky. I died on a slow news day and my story is replayed over and over again. Then I faded, as fast as a television image when the set is turned off. I became nostalgia, stories to be told, pictures to be shown.

I became a reason to live for those survivors. One of them, a doctor, was inspired to do the first successful live-donor pancreas transplant. A retired police woman came up with a new security measure so the incident would not be repeated. He founded a company, bought a house, gave birth to a girl. And so it goes, ad infinitum, all the people in the plane…

I did not get up. Another man, wearing glasses, tackled the man. It was he who died. I lived with the guilt, the idea that it should have been me, not that man. My daughter should have been orphaned, not his. I went through life, drinking, poisoning every relationship, overridden by the belief that I did not deserve to live.

I was not mourned. I died in a gutter after buying the wrong lottery ticket. Perhaps an old friend saw my obituary in the paper, remembered a good instance. A moment later his hands tightened and his lips pursed as he is reminded of our fallout. Then I was gone, my influence in this world fading into the dark…

The plane skidded into a damp runway. The pilots hit the brakes; they hissed and smoked. I glanced once more at the attendant, knowing it will never happen, but allowing myself one instant to daydream about what our happy relationship would look like. I wait in line and exit in a timely fashion.

It could have all been so different, so many different paths, so many different doors.

Then again, planes land all the time. Why shouldn't it be this one?

Augusto Corvalan has been writing for many years now, and has been published in numerous magazines and e-zines, including Potluck Literary Magazine, Flashshot, Journal & Courier, AlienSkin Magazine, AntipodeanSF, Six Sentences, MicroHorror, Teen Ink and many others. Augusto moonshines as a student at Columbia University in New York, New York, U.S.A. Contact Augusto.