Every time I board an airplane I swear it will be the last, but it never is

This is why I don’t like flying:

You walk into a metal cylinder that resembles an iron lung, but rather than helping you breathe, this lung prevents you from performing that basic function. It is too small and too narrow and too confining.

If one person dares to stop in the aisle, you cannot get past him, not even if you push. The aisle is simply too small.

You stare out a window as important-looking people walk around the airplane, kicking the tires and scratching their chins over fluids dripping out of the engine. You have seen that look on the faces of mechanics wondering why your car died in the middle of the freeway.

Then the engines start and the plane shudders – a sound louder than your knees knocking together. You palms are slick; your heart yammers and you can feel it with every cell of your body.

The plane taxis to the runway. The wings wobble back and forth, and you suddenly remember the soft drink cans you’ve bent in half by working them back and forth, back and forth, until metal fatigue sets in and the cans tear. You hope the wings aren’t made of soft drink cans.

The airplane’s snout points at the dragstrip runway and the pilot steps on the gas. You’re slapped back into your seat as the plane trundles over bumps in the concrete. Your speed increases and you realize you’re going faster than you ever went in your car. The Lord never meant for you to go so fast.

The nose rises. The fuselage doesn’t want to follow it, but everything is whizzing by so quickly now that if you don’t become airborne, the plane will go off the runway.

The thudding stops as the jet claws its way into the air. The belly wallows sickeningly. You hear pops and bangs as the gear comes up. You don’t want to look out the window. You don’t want to see what’s happening. You really don’t.

The plane ascends for several minutes, and then the pilot throttles back. The change in engine pitch is enough to convince you something terrible has happened.

You cruise for a long, long time. Time stands still in an airplane. Then the engines change pitch again, the nose of the plane points earthward and you stretch into your seatbelt as your airspeed decreases. This is the crash you’ve been dreading, but the pilot announces final approach to your destination.

More pops, bangs and rattles. The gear is coming down. Weird flaps and such are moving on those flopping wings. The plane tilts this way and that. You see houses beneath you, buildings, highways with safe people in their safe cars on the blessed ground.

The plane touches down with a thud, the main gear first, then the nose wheel. The pilot switches on the thrust reversers and the plane slows as quickly as it accelerated on takeoff.

Your palms are below zero. Your heart is about to explode. You swear you’ll never fly again.

But you always do.

This column was published in the Playground Daily News during the 1980s and is used with permission.

About the author:

Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”

Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.

As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.

Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .