A Westbound Plane
If you take off at sunset, traveling on a westbound plane, you'll chase the glow for hours and fall in love along the way.
Or not.
There's always the unfortunate possibility that the girl sitting across the aisle, wearing a tight green sweater, actually has zero interest in cuddling and sharing a two-hour sunset with you. And would much rather watch the in flight movie, even though the headphones are crap and the screen is the size of a postage stamp.
Sometimes with a little persistence and charm you can manage to change her mind.
And sometimes the air marshal is quietly summoned and he tasers the back of your neck so severely that blood shoots from your cuticles and you reflexively sever your tongue.
If your chances with her were slim before, they're practically translucent now. For without a tongue to form the words, you're just wooing with fiendish sounds.
A sunset is only as special as those you share it with. If blood and chaos obscure the view then there's nothing to fall in love to.
(It turns out this post scores a 10 out of 10 on the Tortured Deepness Scale, making me eligible for a large cash prize, awarded by the Tortured Deepness Appreciation Society. Which, as the rules clearly state, I'm supposed to snootily refuse--because money and joy are meaningless, and are actually wicked if interdependent.)
posted by Latigo Flint @ 12:48 AM
11 comments
11 Comments:
I'd rather be wooed by you with fiendish sounds than be obligated to some tazer weilding air steward. I am sure I speak for the majority of intelligent women.
If you take off at sunset, traveling on a westbound plane, you'll chase the glow for hours and fall in love along the way.
That is beautiful. I know when I'm gunna time my next flight.
Yay! You're back! I was worried you were trapped under something heavy somewhere.
Those damn air marshalls, huh?
A sunset is only as special as those you share it with. If blood and chaos obscure the view then there's nothing to fall in love to.
Madness and poetry. I am awed, sir.
I don't know. I thought if you went west into the sunset from L.A. you would always be going into the sunset until your plane fell down in Khartoum or some place. Which is not at all romantic.
I hereby submit my appliction for the Tortured Deepness Appreciation Society. Please find enclosed a blurred photo of an anonymous airman from 1943, a lock of hair bound in a piece of grey yarn, and a vial of the tears of a frail yet courageous spinster.
I'll be awaiting your response from a prone position, with the weight of years all but crushing my chest.
Thank you.
Wooing with fiendish sounds. I love it.
Of course, there are still parts of the country where wooing with fiendish sounds is still done. Most are located somewhere in the nether regions of southern West Virginia.
I once got a handjob in a westbound taxi. From myself.
Grab the money from the TDAS and book another sunset flight Latigo, you're luch has to change sooner or later.
I'm replying to this from a friend's computer, as a sudden, pathos-driven tearfall shorted mine out.
I told that tech guy who was coming around installing virus updates not to read your story, but he didn't listen.
Very well Helga Von Porno, consider our courtship commenced.
(Naturally it shall end in blood and misery, as all great courtships do.)
Have you a tight green sweater Everton?
Amandarama, I've been trapped under something heavy for the better part of thirty years... I thought you knew that.
Thank you very much Strange Forces. It is a very nice thing you have just said to me. You should know though that I negate all of my potential underground hipster cred with a deep, abiding love of country music.
On the contrary Old Hoss, plummeting from the sky together is and has always been extremely romantic, regardless of where it occurs.
Mr. Visible, I passed your application along to the T.D.A.S's approval committee. You should expect your invitation to arrive in a month or two--in a black envelope that smells faintly of lavender and honeysuckle.
(You should decline and claim acceptance is meaningless, which will greatly please them and endear you to them forever.)
I'll take your word for it sweet Sharon. I've never been to the nether regions of southern West Virginia. (And even if had, probably wouldn't admit it.)
I hear you LBB... but you just ruined what was to be my next post... jerk!
Gunslinger luck never changes Peter, and I've seen my own death in dreams so many nights in row now that it's ceased to be even a little bit funny.
And the tears of a tech-guy are the saddest tears of all, aren't they Ari? I'm glad you liked my story. I'm sorry it broke your computer.
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