“The Night the Plane Dropped”, Part 1 – A Short Story

Woke Dancer // Pulp Fiction Edition, Vol. 2 

Every year, Dominga would bring the plants to harvest with the light that orbed out of her delicate curls, and let the flowers bloom with the vibrancy of bright yellows, pinks, and purples. She watched the bright yellow light come out of her hair and body in the sunrise. Dominga always made sure no one was around to tell her she was practicing voodoo or that she was the devil’s child. 

She had begged and pleaded with her spirit to be brought to a place where she could be with her own kind, but now she only wished she could take it back by going to heaven away from all of the noise. 

But was still in human form, which made her feel human things. She ached, she cried, she bled like any other. She could hear all of the voices at once. Were the plantins still in the oil? Will I catch a red snapper today? Does my husband miss me? She could hear it all, but not by choice. The woman had gotten to an age, though, where control of the voices was the only way she wouldn’t go crazy. 

She thought heavily about the man who made her wish she was in heaven: Keyair. 

There was no such thing as a truce with him, and Dominga knew that. 

He had followed her all over the world, but when she unleashed her new powers – her evolution – he had been forced to retreat, or else force her to kill him. No other opponent was more worthy. 

So when she saw him, she expected another fight. 

“Just stay,” Keyair said. 

He leaned close enough for her to smell his cologne with its pine tree scent. 

“Step away from me,” Dominga said.

He threw his hands up playfully, licking his lips. 

“Fine.” 

Her eyes widened, and she stared at him for a moment. Her chest began to twist into a knot. She tried hard not to let him see her fear, but he only smiled. 

He walked up to her, and gave her a kiss on the cheek. He was the only person she knew who didn’t have the voices, only his slick tongue. She ached to hear inside, but could never access his guarded mind. 

“I love you,” Keyair said, not expecting her to say it back. 

And so, she left him with himself, unable to breathe as she felt the Spring air hitting her face. 

There would be no harvest this year. 

~ 

The chatter from the news stations clucked on every television screen. 

Where was Flight A1273? For a week, no one knew. The buzz from the families, and friends, and lovers at the airport that Saturday morning was like any other Saturday. They were meant to land in Panama City at 7:42pm. Some coming home, some traveling, some just needing an escape across the sea, and others for more anonymous reasons. 

CNN: “On Saturday night, August 3rd, Flight A1273 went missing in the middle of the Caribbean Sea.”

Panama News Stations: “Panama government officials have had a search crew out tirelessly for over a week.” 

Jamaican News Stations: “There’s no sign of the wreckage. It left from the Montego Bay Airport and -” 

The noise cut off. Panama City had been scrambling, feeling the ache, confusion and fear from a missing plane. A plane that went missing mid-flight in the middle of the sea, according to their GPS transponders who stopped receiving messages and could not locate the plane. 

At first, they waited. The plane had less than an hour until it landed. They would wait it out; yes, that was what they would do.

But one hour became one night, and one night became an entire week. 

There was no sign of the wreckage. 

Panama City News: “No trace. Anywhere in the world.” 

The families and lovers more than anyone held their breath, hoping their loved ones were going to come home any day now. The government sent a search team that went deeper than the earth of that Caribbean Sea to find something, anything – a body, plane parts. But nothing; nothing at all. 

At first, the state thought it had been an invasion from the US military, and braced for what would come next. But they couldn’t put the country in a state of emergency for fear that their antsy residents would go into anarchy. 

So neither Panama nor Jamaica said a word until a week went by, and the families hauled through airports and on news stations in a riot-like frenzy. 

Where was Flight A1273?

End of Part I 

Part II of “The Night the Plane Dropped” coming out next week!  

Photo by Nafis Al Sadnan on Unsplash

Catch up in the series with Vol. 1 Pulp Fiction Short story here.