Fear of flying

The plane is full. The fat man spills over his seat into mine. I count tiny houses from the window, a blue tear behind each one.
‘Going to England on vacation?’ The man asks.
‘Going home with my Dad,’ I say.
‘You couldn’t get a seat next to him?’
‘No.’
Something in his voice makes me turn. He’s gripping the arm-rests, sweat beading his top lip. ‘Scared of flying, he says, teeth gritted.

We hold hands for the rest of the flight, while he tells me about his holiday and I try not to think about my father’s body in the hold.

This is a Friday Fictioneers story, inspired by the picture above. Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, our host is doing a few re-runs of previous pictures, and this one is from February 2013, as is my story (although slightly edited). The picture was supplied by Rich Voza. You should go to Rochelle’s website to read her joint story (with Doug Macllroy) which is incredibly moving, and there you can also see how you can join in with Friday Fictioneers or read other people’s stories.

The plane is full. The fat man beside me spills over his seat into mine. I lean my forehead on the window, counting the tiny houses, a splash of blue behind each one.
“Going to England for a vacation?” The man asks.
“Going home,” I say.
“I’m going to visit with my daughter.” Something in his voice makes me turn. His hands are gripping the arm-rests, sweat beading his top lip. “Scared of flying,” he says through gritted teeth.

We hold hands for the rest of the flight, while he tells me about his daughter and I try not to think about my father in the hold.

***

This piece of writing was inspired by the picture prompt provided by Rich Voza for the Friday Fictioneers writing group. Each week writers from around the world attempt to write 100 words (or so) and this week I’m a little over.

I’d love to receive comments and constructive criticism. Click here to read other people’s stories inspired by this picture or to join in.