Icarus
written by: Kendra Recht
The radio crackles. The fuel gauge’s needle points to empty. You speak calmly into the unresponsive transmitter even as your fingertips numb from fear. You could blame Itasca for the poor communication or Noonan for his questionable navigation, but you are the pilot of this plane and it all comes down to you. Instead of words, the radio spews incomprehensible dots and dashes, infernal beeping that should somehow form a message.
“We should’ve learned Morse code,” you shout over the deafening whir of propellers. You should have, but you were too busy to bother and fame made you invincible.
The needle lies nearly flat.
“Amelia,” Noonan yells, his next words swallowed by wind. He passes you a scrawled note instead: we’re going to crash.
You stare at the gauges, willing your tank to fill, and your motor to run. The altitude drops. The engine sputters. You’ve never crashed before, not like this. That’s the kind of thing that happens to other people, not you.
Once, you parachuted off a building in New Jersey. You floated lazily to earth, a hundred fifteen foot journey. Long before that, you were a child on a backyard swing, kicking higher, higher, until you launched from the seat, a reckless and prescient display of bravery. Your first flight, only three seconds in the air, fall broken by a pile of leaves your father raked that morning. You didn’t even skin your knee.
This time, no leaves will break your fall. You hope the water’s just as kind.
