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We are airborne when the world ends. The control tower denies us a landing strip, and we reroute again and again as the airports shut down and go silent. At first it doesn't seem odd the tank always reads half-full. The toilets continue to flush. Every time we visit the service area, there are new meal trays. The windows show an endless sea of clouds with no sign of land. Days pass, and we start to wonder: are we asleep, trapped in a traveller's daydream? Are we dead, and this is a heaven of infinite drink carts? Or a hell of endless shrink-wrapped meals? We don't discuss it, in case acknowledging the dream will shatter it. We lose track of weeks. Maybe one day we'll vote to land the plane and see what has become of the world below. Maybe someone will go mad, storm the cockpit, and try to crash us. Maybe there is nothing but sky left to crash into. We are afraid to find out, afraid to shatter this fragile dream. We loop through the in-flight entertainment offerings. We stay in our seats when the turbulence sign comes on. But in our hearts, we know. This will never end until it does.
Short story written by Peter Chiykowski
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