Dream Journal . A Delayed Flight
Driving back in the boxy sedan, I was leaning my head against the passenger window staring out into the thick midday fog. Ragged electrical poles, like giant alien scarecrows, passed relentlessly like the seconds on a clock. It was a smooth silent ride along a freshly paved one-lane country road, a thin flawless black strip where the flat marshy valley abruptly vanished into the black rocky mountains walling in the soupy smokey mist.
Passing a sign plainly marked “Airport”, we turned onto a gravelly mountain path and began to cautiously ascend the hill. Carved into the side of the mountain like a snaking shelf, despite our altitude, the dense fog persisted, almost filling the car it seemed. Barely able to make out the road ahead of us, and completely white-walled by the mist of the valley below, the sedan puttered along like a snail lost in a cloud.
Finally, mercifully, emerging from the mist ahead, another sign, also marked “Airport”. The sedan sheepishly passed through the chain-link fence as we slowly made our approach towards the mountain-summit airport.
From the humble four-vehicle-capacity parking lot, we could see the platform leading to the check-in counter was peppered with people, none of whom seemed particularly pleased. The counter, no bigger than a photo-booth housed one young woman behind a monitor. I approached the counter and asked about the status of my flight. Unapologetically, she apologized, “We’re sorry, but all flights have been delayed due to the Mushroom-Men.”
Frustrated, I turned to observe the runway, just a stone’s-throw away, leading over the cliff of the mountain like a giant stone-carved diving board. But the fog had made its way up the mountain too, swallowing the end of the runway within it’s relentless appetite and seemingly endless reach.
And now, Aliens.
There was no telling how long my flight would be delayed.