spoke into a tiny recorder. Pushed (i)pause(i) with a dirty and broken fingernailed thumb. The sun had risen but only infused the jungle air with more tangle of ancient smells. The weight of the smells like shudders on sounds. Chopping, chopping, chopping.
"Are you fitting the pieces together?"
"What doesn't fit is that in the Old Testament that God retributes for His people, but Jesus gets killed."
A push of a button, "The sun's come up. They've kept the jet running. Maybe they'll not have enough gas to get to where they're going." Click.
"Hell, presumably. But what about us?"
The body of a woman with a square patch of missing skin around her mouth was left on the chopping table with fish separated from their tails.
"What is the meaning of this?" One stewardess asked.
"How dare you people," admonished a steward.
"Okay. Now the people who are bloody need to go back to their original seats." The woman said it matter-of-factually without looking up from the diagrams. Like a kindegarten teacher moderating a game of Mother May I.
"Can you explain this?" The stewardess stood in the aisle beside the woman who seemed to maybe be in charge. The steward came behind her and rubbed her shoulders. "Always be nice to the stewardess," he warned.
"Raid. Wounded. Enemy stole all the dissolving staples."
"Ew," the steward said.
"So they're just sitting around on our seats with open wounds?"
"Apparently. And we couldn't get the med students out, so no one to make sure they aren't bleeding out."
"I'd sit still if I were you," the steward's eyes grew wide.
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