Typically this is a normal Substack (if you're new, see this post to start), but sometimes... it's not.
Today I'm sharing a short story, which connects to some themes from previous posts. But I don't want to give away more than that, since fiction should speak for itself. (The “short story about…” incomplete lede above is on purpose!)
You set out for the airport on a sunny day but by the time you board storm clouds congregate in the distance.
The plane takes off to the sound of rain and thunder and the voice on the PA says you’ll have to circle in the air until the storm lets up. Sure, you think. With the entire future ahead, what’s another few minutes?
You open the window and peer down at the neat neighborhoods beneath you. You stare long enough to think you recognize some of those clusters of houses. You must have made a full circle.
Two more circles. By now all traces of gray have dissipated and the sky looks clear to you.
What’s happening? you ask the passenger next to you, a heavyset man who is no longer attempting to shut his eyes. There’s no more rain.
Who knows, he answers. They must see something we don’t.
The voice on the PA finally returns and apologizes but says it’s still not safe so we’ll continue to circle.
Your heels itch, so you take off your shoes. It doesn’t help. You’re hungry, and attempt to channel the hunger into drowsiness. If you focus on that lack of energy, your body will need to rest, it will slowly shut down…
You awake serenely, dreamily. You glance at your watch: more than seven hours have passed. The most tranquil sleep you’ve had in a while. You look out the window and can’t see below the clouds. You must be past the east coast by now, nearly across the ocean. But what’s that?
A row of brown rooftops beneath the clouds. You recognize them. Your heart falls into your stomach.
Yup, still circling, your neighbor mutters.
The voice on the PA returns, says the circling will continue indefinitely until it’s safe to proceed.
But how is that possible? Won’t we need to refuel?
Who knows.
Sunset happens. Then sunrise. Out the window, you can see a fuel nozzle nestling under the wing.
They strung that up all the way from the ground, your neighbor explains. Looks like we’ll be here for longer.
Two days later, and the meager airplane food has been depleted. They run a supply elevator up from the ground to bring more. It also carries fresh clothes, and buckets of water so people can take turns rinsing over the toilet.
You spend your time wandering, getting to know the others. Tina, the pregnant lady, is sweet. Aldous, an older gentlemen, says he’s on his way to his vacation home.
You try to prod, to understand how the others can bear this waiting.
Circles. And the months go by. Tina gives birth—a girl. The supply lines bring her formula, even though she insists she doesn’t need it. She planned to exclusively breastfeed.
Circles. Aldous passes away. The supply lines carry his body down so he can be buried back home, in the plot next to his wife.
Circles. And questions. Why can’t they bring all of us down? The voice on the PA, as if in response, explains that it’s unsafe to do so with a live body.
The life you had imagined is fading further into the distance and revealing itself to be nothing more than these rows of seats before you. The dark thought spurs something in you and you address your fellow passengers, the comrades you have gotten to know over the years: How can you accept this life, painting futile circles in the sky? How can you refuse to move forward, all because of the threat of a storm?
Not one cheer. Not even a nod. They’ve heard this before, it no longer moves them.
So you move. You push past Bethanie, the stewardess, who repeats her familiar line about not disturbing the pilots.
You yank open the white door yourself and burst into the cockpit. But it’s not a cockpit.
It’s a different row of passengers, ones you have never met. You run through the aisle, ignoring their yelps of surprise and the protests of these unfamiliar stewardesses. You reach the cockpit door.
It’s another row. And another. Planes merged into planes, countless people waiting.
Finally, your sprint slowing, out of breath and exhausted, you reach a different kind of door. Heavy, dark, intricate patterns of gold painted into the steel. It takes you minutes to work out the lock mechanism. No one is hassling you this time. They crowd behind you, breath bated. It eventually gives and they help you pull it open.
You shut your eyes and step forward, ready to confront the pilots who have been in control, the people in whose hands you’ve all placed your futures.
You open your eyes and see yourself.
Hello, the other you says cheerily. Any idea when it will be safe to go?
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