A heart of carbon monoxide, petrochemical arms, razor-clawed fingers, always reaching for a hug. The heart puffs and it swells and contracts. It is a machine stitched together by promises and tears and where there are tears, consider them to be extra windows. People bang on and bruise and cut and let the blood seep from and tear open the edges of their chests so they can remove their hearts in a supportive suicide as their final display of gratitude. But they—the ubiquitously blamed omniabsent they, well they’re oh, they can’t answer the phone right now, so to say, because no—they’re not here; they’re there which is here to them and we’re here which is there to them. The world is the plane of the people and she is the pilot of the tin tube with acerbic ventricles—and that is the world and the world is the word and the word is good. She says, oh, she says, it’s just some light—it’s just some medium—well it’s over now, so don’t worry. Air-worthy as sea-worthy, is what she says, and that is for you all to decide whether that means this plane is heading down! Or, oh, or sorry—if that—if it means that we can land on water with minimal casualties. Zero. Zero is the minimum, so don’t look so scared by the odds. And then, yes, and then now that she’s done talking, well the plane dips down, up, stabilizes, and acidic complimentary bile coats the aisles in a ripple. Wow, says the pilot. If you, uh, if you look to your left, those on the right anyway, you will see those from the center enjoying the nice breeze outside. Mind the pretty orange light—it’s hot! Your seats—they’re dynamic, so feel free to spin around. And while those people spin—some following the Earth’s rotation, others defying it, and all affected by it, the plane dips again. It does not come back this time, does not appear anymore to simply be whimsically imitating a whale. The plane is quickly descending towards the ground, eager to kiss the concrete and asphalt. And okay, okay, so yes, something is seriously approaching not being entirely perfect, the pilot says. Things are okay still because they’ll never be less than okay. They’re still, mm, probably somewhere between phenomenal and fantastic. Avoid panicking. You may—if you wish, you just may—jump off the plane. There is a chance you will survive the landing. Nothing’s really impossible. We have ten parachutes and seven are functional, so pick with haste and caution. These harsh winds and the sickness they carry boil the flesh and strip it away and dissolve it into negligible clumps of cells well before they could ever reach the ground. Raucous cheers are a freely exchanged currency, because the remaining passengers are alive. They shout and hug each other and cry and pray and do everything a human can be expected to do, because they are here and the others are not here nor there; they are nothing and they are nowhere because there is nothing left of them to be here or there or anywhere or nowhere—the total cessation, oh yes, the total cessation of them as concepts has occurred and they will soon not even be memories in anyone’s minds. We’re going to crash, the pilot says. Please prepare your final words. Prepare, I mean, what you want your final words to be recorded as. All of our last words will maybe not be words at all, but screams. So yes, get your final words ready, because the idea of any of us is going to be wiped away from the universe in about two minutes. Hysteria. The economy has collapsed; the currency has experienced extreme deflation such as to be worth, in essence, zero of itself. Grief the new penny, terror freshly minted hundred dollar bills. Calm, calm, the pilot says. She repeats herself maybe for twenty seconds, then stops. She offers hugs and makes good on the offer and the hugs are good; the hugs are the end for everyone who accepts the petrochemical affection. In Mother’s long arms they feel safe, and they feel safe right until impact when plane meets Earth and life meets death. 

Alejandro Gonzales is a writer with stories in Brilliant Flash Fiction, Carnage House, Trembling With Fear, and elsewhere. He attributes the completion and success of this story and all others to the love of his life, Angie.