Where am I?
Who am I?
My watch reads 28/11/1979. This date seems important somehow, but I’m not sure why. I’m almost certain the year should read 2020.
There is an odd sort of silence ringing through my ears like the string of a guitar, vibrating long after the sound is no longer heard by human ears. My mouth tastes like dead stars. I realise I am sitting on a plane. I hear laughter, giggles, people oohing and aahing with excitement.
People peer out their windows but you can’t see much aside from a dense, white fog. Despite these cheerful proceedings, anxiety writhes in my stomach.
Something is wrong. I hear voices from the cockpit of the plane.
“Actually, those conditions don’t look very good at all - do they?”
This sentence sounds familiar, but again I don’t know why. There are holes in my memory.
“Look at Antarctica!” someone else exclaims and, suddenly, everything slots into place.
Mt Erebus. I am on the plane headed straight for Mt. Erebus. The plane that, in only a few minutes, will collide with the unforgiving side of an Antarctic mountain. The plane crash (how do I know this?) which none of these 257 people will survive.
I jump out of my seat and run towards the front of the plane. Seizing hold of the first official looking person I see, I give them a shake. I speak very quickly, all my words tumble out on top of each other, like lots of water trying to flow down a very narrow tube all at once.
“Please! Sir, you have to stop the plane! Turn it around! We’re going to crash!”
He shakes his head, bemused by my panicked outburst.
“I assure you, Miss, everything is completely under control.”
I can’t breathe. I am hyperventilating. The only thing worse than knowing you and 257 other people are going to die, is knowing that you could stop it happening if someone would just listen to what you have to say.
Before I can start talking the captain murmurs, “We’re 26 miles north, we’ll have to climb out of this.”
It’s too late.
I’m too late.
“WHOOP! WHOOP!” Emergency siren. Pull up, pull up.
My world is imploding.
Starbursts dance in front of my eyes.
People start screaming.
We crash, and my life is over.
Just like that.
by Indigo T, Whakatane Intermediate
This gripping story was Highly Commended in the Year 7&8 section of our "What Year is It?" competition for Write On Issue 55: Time Travel.
Copyright: Indigo and Write On 2020