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This Isn`t Your Captain Speaking

Brian thought terrorists had darker skin, but the white man at the front of the plane could have been from Iowa or Colorado. How he got the gun through security was a mystery, considering that the guards frisked Brian as soon as they discovered his iPod. But none of that mattered. They werenít going to Chicago or anywhere else. This wasnít political. This man didnít intend to take them to Jamaica or The Caymans. He said the only place they were going was heaven.

Which meant Brian wouldnít graduate.

Or go to prom.

Or see Stacey again, though they had plans to see a movie the following day.

Texting his mother first, Brian said he loved her; he texted his buddy Doug next with a terse "Later, Dude." When the man entered the cockpit, Brian knew he didnít have much time. What, he wondered, would be their final destination: a building? A famous landmark? The side of a mountain? It didnít matter. Brian couldnít help imagining the gut-churning sound of rippling steel, the screams and cries of the dying, the hopeless flailing of the passengers as the giant metal tube- for thatís all it was - smashed into some obstacle and spontaneously combusted into a billion fragments.

Shaking it off, Brian sent one more text.

He pressed "New Message," then hit Staceyís name.

His thumbs flying, he tapped out their sign:

<3. A single heart.

Brian heard a ding and looked up.

The "Fasten Your Seatbelt" sign came on.

Story by:

Dan Tricarico

dtricarico@san.rr.com

submitted at 10:13am

28 December 2010

Dan Tricarico's web:

www.litsnack.weebly.com