They come at night. The images. Again and again like a reel of sepia celluloid. Long-buried feelings bob to the surface I fly through clouds and conflicting sensations. Then I’m frenzied, frantic. The iron-crossed behemoth looms Tentacles of tracer are probing, grasping, clawing. I feel my thumb pressure A storm explodes around me. A bundle of life is born from the dying machine, Flames caress wing roots. And a screenplay is written Again. And again. PJ Stephenson is a British writer living near Geneva, Switzerland with his wife and Parson Russell Terrier. He sees the Alps every day but misses the Cairngorms. His fiction is inspired by history, nature and human nature. He has had short stories published online and in print in outlets such as Writing Magazine, Writers’ Forum Magazine, Dream Catcher Magazine, The Fiction Pool, Flash Fiction Magazine, Flash Frontier, STORGY, Edify Fiction, The Sunlight Press, The Short Story and several anthologies. Follow him at @Tweeting_Writer.
The Fighter Pilot’s Nightmare
swirling round my head
A blurred surrealist film
snippets of my life. Repeating.
Repeating.
Repeating.
like barrage balloons
in a turbulent sky
waiting to explode.
I’m a graceful swallow with elliptical wings.
My contrails are white paint strokes
caressing an azure canvas.
A grey curtain descends over my salt-stung eyes
as I dive for my life
a snapper on my tail.
Screaming.
Screaming.
in the red glow of my gunsight.
His slipstream hits me
rippling, bumping, bucking.
As they touch my wings
pebbles rattle in a tin can.
and my Spitfire spits fire.
Burst after burst.
After burst.
After burst.
Thunder is the throbbing engine
named for a medieval wizard.
Raindrops are bullets smashing Perspex,
holes riddling a fuselage.
blooming as a mushroom of silk.
Then as a collapsing funnel. Falling.
Falling.
Falling.
Gone.
As the bomber cremates
smoke paints the sky with fuzzy grey lines.
for my nightmares to come.About the Author
