Tell me, Reverend: is life so stinking cheap that you can throw it down the drain?
I’ve got a worthless, miserable little life, but I also have an instinct for survival.
I know I had a nervous breakdown. I know I had it on a plane.
I know it looks to you as if the same thing is happening again.
Look, there’s someone on the wing. I’m not imagining it; he’s out there!
Don’t look, he’s not out there now. He jumps away when you see him.
Fasten your seatbelt, sir. We must muddle through these things.
Push up and push out because if you stop, it’ll get you by the throat.
The truth is, this isn’t real flesh. There aren’t any real nerves under there.
Each of us woke up one moment and here we were in the darkness:
No knowledge of what went before. No understanding of what is now.
No knowledge of what will be.
Your whole life has been a fantasy, a parade of illusions,
and now you can have it all to yourself.
Look! Remember what I told you before, about seeing something outside?
There’s a man out there. A—a gremlin! He’s tampering with the engine.
Hurry, hurry! He’s out there! Look, Reverend, he’s pulling up one of the cowlings!
There’s a man out there! Would you look! Would you please look in the name of—
Tessa Livingstone lives and writes in Portland, Oregon with her haunted clown doll, Jack.
SICK LIT MAGAZINE 