You are almost to the galley. Whatever's playing the song is likely in there too, as it seems to be getting louder. You notice the flight attendants shambling toward the first class area. You wonder if that weird dude with the sunflowers accidentally bumped his call button in his attempts to seduce his [[flowers]].
A tall, light haired, pale man sits in the window seat to your left. In the seat next to him, a large pile of wilting sunflowers is seatbelted into place. Odd. You wonder how he got a pile of sunflowers that large through security. He's dressed rather odd, in a large khaki coat and pink scarf. Maybe he smuggled the sunflowers in under his coat. He picks up a rather large bottle of vodka and takes a swig. Maybe that's where your vodka went. You would ponder this more, had you not noticed the personal tv screen on the back of the chair in front of [[you]]. \n
You continue to sit. The man in the seat to your left has his scarf wrapped around the severely wilted pile of sunflowers, continually stroking it and murmuring things softly into the flower closest to his face. You feel something deep within you. A need to do... [[something]].
You look down at yourself. Instead of seeing a torso, arms, legs, etc., you see... nothing. the ground below you, the back of the cockpit, and the open door that goes through the galley and into the first class area. Huh. That's weird. If you don't have legs, then [[how]] are you standing in the cockpit? You don't question this for long, instead opting to flip a few switches and push some of the more exciting looking [[buttons]].
Passengers, this isn't your [[captain]] [[speaking]].
A start. You need to start something. You wonder what it is you need to start. You do not remember truly finishing something or having another task to complete. You need to start something. The feeling is overpowering. What do you need to start? What task could you possibly complete on this plane? You need to start something. You need to. Something, anything, something. You need to start. You need to. You need to start. Need to start. Need to. Need to. Need to start. Need to start. Need to. Need to. [[Start]].
You are in the cockpit. There is nobody in the co-pilot's chair, and a large, yellow stuffed hippo sits where the pilot should be in the adjacent chair. A wide array of buttons and switches [[flicker]] and [[glow]], in various states of being switched on or off.
As you walk back, the plane seems to distort around you, twisting into shapes that seem somewhat improbable, but not entirely impossible.You continue your leisurely stroll back to your seat. It seems to be taking longer than you expected. Havent you passed that flight attendant [[before?]]\n
Eventually you notice that other than the flight attendants, that weird dude with the flowers, a shaved chimp, and yourself, there doesn't seem to be anyone on the plane with you. Come to think of it, how did you get here in the first place? The last memory you have is of staring into the mirror in the terminal bathroom, examining the dark, hefty bags under your eyes. You image that you probably look like shit by now. Oh well. You don't think the flight attendants are going to judge anyway. As you take another step forward, your left foot lands in something... slippery. You look down. Some sort of opaque, pale yellow substance is slicking the aisle in front of you for the next few feet. You wonder what it is as you crouch down for a closer look. The smell hits you. It's [[lemon pudding]].
You jam a button and suddenly it seems like one of the engines has stopped. You hastily hit it again, and all seems right with the world. Eventually, you tire of hitting all these buttons. You sigh to yourself, wishing you had an icy can of mountain dew right now. Yeah, that would be great. You dreamily imagine yourself sipping one. Suddenly, a thought occurrs to you. Exactly [[how]] did you get here? You decide not to think about that. Too tiresome. Time to flip some more switches. You excitedly rush back to the array of switches and go at it again.
Hm. Flipping switches doesn't seem to be doing much. You straighten up and stretch out a bit. This cockpit sure is cramped. You take a peek into first class. It seems to be empty, with the exception of someone in a ragged fuscia business suit furiously poking the seat in front of them, a stoned-looking shaved chimp, and a man furiously chugging the remains of a bottle of vodka, then leaning over to the pile of sunflowers to his right and stroking it lovingly. You can hear some faint beats and an onslaught of words from somewhere in coach. You're pretty sure someone down there just started blasting "Boss Ass [[Bitch]]" by Nicki Minaj.
Hm. Maybe not. This one seems a little greener than the rest of them. They must be new. You seem to have found your way back to your seat. The shaved chimp seems a little less calm now, occasionally whipping his head to the beat of the volley of 'bitches' flowing out of the electronic larynx of Nicki Minaj. You buckle up. This could be a bumpy ride. You wonder... when will the in-flight movie start? A voice comes over the intercom. "Passengers, this isn't your captain speaking." That's all the not-captain [[says]].
You continue your journey through coach, noting that the stewards and stewardesses don't quite seem... right. Something about their glazed, distant stare, their greenish skin, and the way they occasionally seem to partially morph into large purple octopi doesn't sit right with you. Must be this airline, you think to yourself, hiring whoever they can. You imagine it would be a tiring, confusing job, being an airline steward or stewardess. Always jamming bags into the overhead compartments, serving drinks, travelling through so many time zones, performing safety checks, making sure nobody murders someone on your plane, cleaning up kiddie barf. You shudder. Kiddie barf. [[Gross]].
Preoccupied with your personal TV screen, you fail to notice the sudden commotion back in coach. After about three minutes of furiously jamming the small array of buttons on the screen's right, you realize that the black of the screen is actually broken, entirely shattered, and this whole time you've been wondering why the piece of black paper taped over it won't light up. You sigh. Hm... What's that? You hear the faint melody of "Boss Ass [[Bitch]]" by Nicki Minaj playing somewhere in coach.
You sip a screwdriver in first class. Upon swirling it around in your mouth, you realize that the thin, orange-ish liquid in your glass is definitely NOT two ounces of [[vodka]] and five of orange juice. It actually seems to be cut with water. Gross. You swear under your breath and look at the seats [[around]] you.
You look to the seat to your right. A rather odd looking chimp is buckled in, seeming rather calm for being buckled into an airplane seat on a plane that seems to be jerking around at random. Where are the stewards and stewardesses, anyway? Isn't it about time for another complementary drink? You eye the remaining third of your watered down orange juice suspiciously before knocking the rest of it back. Yes, it's definitely complementary drink time again. But back to your seatmate. He appers to be sedated, somewhat. Aside from the occasional twitch of his left big toe, the flicking of his eyes from side to side, and the occasional grunt, he appears rather... calm. You notice a fairly fat looking dart sticking out of his right thigh. He only makes a faint grunt of protest as [[you]] gently pull it out. Rolling it between your fingertips, you notice the words "horse tranquilizer" in sloppy, childish handwriting across it. Huh. So that's why he's so calm. It's so sad how far chimps will go these days to achieve happiness.
Aha! You've found the alcohol drawer. You select two mini-bottles vodka, in clear bottles with red caps. Selecting two clear plastic airline cups, you scoop ice into both and fix yourself a drink. You sigh with delight as you take a sip, basking in the taste of alcohol-laced orange-y goodness, and you turn to face the other end of the galley, toward the bathrooms. You notice the source of the music. It appears that a large, somewhat cephalopodic-looking creature has swallowed a substantially sized sound system. You can see the faint glow of some sort of phone or iPod or whatever, proudly on repeat. You decide to leave the creature in peace, grabbing your spare beverage and making your way back to [[first class]].
Lemon. Fucking. Pudding. You're lightly agitated. You've had a vendetta against lemon pudding since third grade. It's a long story. "[[Gross]]," you mutter under your breath, moving past the pudding slick.
You briefly wonder who's flying this thing as you reach the galley. Rummaging through the compact drawers, you wonder where the hell the vodka is. Boss Ass Bitch continues to play. You pull out one, two, three drawers before finding some orange juice. Perfect. Once you find some vodka and you can finally make a [[screwdriver]].
You lever yourself into the co-pilot's chair. You've seen Airplane. Flying this thing should be a piece of cake, maybe even funny. You click your seatbelt into place, (safety first!), and grab the yoke with both hands, jerking it hard to the right. You let out a "whoop" and thrust a fist into the air. You're flying a plane! Or... you were, until it began to plummet to the ground. You jerk the yoke up, noticing, finally, that it's actually a bit more wet and sticky than it normally should be. You were too preoccupied with the pretty lights that the buttons cast against the walls of the dark cockpit before to notice. After jerking the plane back up, a switch labeled "autopilot" catches your eye. You [[flip]] it, and unbuckle yourself.
You continue your journey through coach. If you can get to the galley in the back, maybe you can grab some free sodas. Or better yet, maybe you can fix yourself a screwdriver. They've probably got some vodka and some of those orange juice cups back there, right? You dreamily think of your favorite alcoholic beverage, tripping over the leg of a comatose... tiger? You tripped over someone DRESSED in a tiger suit. Oh, thank goodness, you were worried for a second there. Who would let a tiger onto a plane anyway? You laugh heartily to yourself and [[continue on]].
You examine your hands. Or, you TRY to examine where your hands Should be. The [[flicker]] of the buttons and switches are probably illuminating your expression of horror as you note that you don't appear to have hands. Or arms.\n
The song calls to you, its sweet melody tearing through the cabin. You pass a near-comatose shaved chimp and an utterly drunk man attempting to sweet-talk a large pile of sunflowers. You get to where first class ends and coach begins. Sliding the curtain to the side, you take in the chaos of the back half of the plane. All the stewards and stewardesses are smeared with some neon [[orange]] substance and are in various states of undress. Nicki Minaj has said "bitch" more times than you can [[count]] by now. You think the song is on repeat.
by Ella A\n\n[Anditsallveryinteresting - tumblr]