3 minutes of boredom produced this questionable piece of literature. Enjoy.
I should be halfway to Los Angeles by now.
Instead I'm sitting in an airport terminal getting the stink-eye from a woman named Carmen who wants my seat. Who asks a man on crutches with a shattered ankle if she can have his seat?
Our flight was cancelled due to a malfunction with one of the wings. Everyone around me is pissed off and grumbling. I say we're better off not flying on a plane with a broken wing, but what do I know.
I'll miss the first day of the conference, which is disappointing, but I'm not presenting until tomorrow anyway. Hopefully we can get an intact plane before then.
I always read H.P. Lovecraft stories when I fly. Some would think that would be an interesting psychological case study. I find his stories soothing to the nervous flier; perhaps because he is so wordy and descriptive that one has no choice but to really, intently focus on what he's trying to say. The cover art to his collections tends to make fellow passengers unsettled, though. I suppose a picture of a corpse-like creature with no eyes hanging on a pole in front of a ruined, ancient stone edifice with a swarm of winged, vampiric inhuman monsters in the distance would have that effect on people. For me, it’s about the writing. Lovecraft’s work is engrossing.
An announcement states they've secured us a new plane but we can't take off for another hour. The grumbling begins anew, and Carmen glares at me like it's my fault. I'm not giving up my chair. At least we'll be on our way today.
There are worse things.
I open my book to page 23; "Rats in the Walls." And I hold up the book so Carmen can see the cover.
I’ve been around the world. But not really.
48 minutes ago