Would you like the window?
By J. Aaron Courts
Small ripples danced on the surface of Martin’s wine. The tray table was small, so when it bounced, the plastic cup flipped and wine spilled on his lap and the empty seat where his son, John, had been sitting.
This was the first father-son trip he’d been able to squirrel away enough cash for since the divorce and his stomach was inside out. Martin knew John, at sixteen, would much rather be with his friends, or trying to get his girlfriend’s bra off, or anywhere other than spending time with him, but Martin believed this was his last chance to connect with his boy before John got too busy to enjoy his company at all.
Martin could see the text message now— “Sorry, I haven’t got time, dad.” Man, I’ve fucked this all up.
“Dad, you feel that?” John began to lean over his father and take his seat. “Aw man, where am I gonna sit?”
“Hold on a sec,” Martin said. “Here. Take my seat while I grab some napkins.”
“Yours is wet too.”
“My lap caught most of it.” Martin shuffled side-to-side like John used to before he could crawl. “Just sit here. I’ll be right—”
A mechanical shriek filled the cabin. John squatted in the aisle and covered his ears. Martin looked out the window and flames trailed behind one of the engines. He forced his fingers out of his own ears and reached for John over the arm rest with both hands. Where is—
John whumped against the roof, and the stewardess and her cart wisped past his head. Martin’s arms slammed rearward and with a snap. His right forearm hammered, and the stewardess’ screams ended with a cymbal’s crash near the aft-most restrooms.
John slapped flat on the crumb-covered aisle. Paper swirled about and screams rose and fell in a cacophony of terror. He wobbled to his hands and knees and a stream of thick blood poured onto the carpet. John turned to his father, still buckled in the seat, and his eyes darted between the cluttered aisle and Martin, wide and unblinking. John had three distinct lips now and Martin could see where his son’s teeth had been.
Martin grabbed his son’s shoulders, but only the left hand closed on his shirt. A rubber arm— his right— refused to help, and his once-dominant hand rested palm-side up in the fold of its own elbow and twitched useless.
Martin’s left hand dug into John’s neck and lobbed him into his seat. John vomited and his eyes rolled.
“Help me, son. I can’t get this fucking thing buckled with one arm.” John’s third lip was snagged on the jagged remnant of a tooth. Martin saw his 5-year-old flip his bike after jumping a ramp they made for his birthday. The same tooth wiggled for days, and Martin’s wife said, “You stupid shit; you’re gonna kill him one day.”
“Dad.”
“It’s okay, John. It’ll be okay. Help me, son.”
Martin’s stomach lurched in his throat and John began to float into the console where the masks hung like quivering bodies from rough sawn gallows.
The shriek increased to a higher pitch and threatened to burst Martin’s ears, and then his face smashed into a tiny flashing screen. He thought John tumbled forward limp, but everything was dark now.
Pressure seized Martin’s chest.
“Son?” A whisper.
Martin’s ears flooded.
“Joh— .”
Editorial note:
A version of this story first appeared in an essay on The Sword & Pen in 2023 after it was long listed by The Failing Writers Podcast for their 2023 Flash Fiction Competition. That essay includes the earlier version, a lot of good information about the podcast and its hosts, and a little bit about what hearing the story mentioned on the radio meant to my girls, and what that meant to me. You can read it here.
For folks that have already read it, apologies for retelling this old drag. For those who were bored with the longer essay and enjoy shorter form stories, I hope this flash is, well, a flash. Enjoy.
Semper Fidelis.