Ad Hoc Fiction

Undelivered
They call us for breakfast in the half-light. Four more empty chairs today, Ma.

We scramble first around seven, back, refuel, rearm. They bring us sandwiches. We scramble again, then a third. At dusk, those of us who are left stay on readiness. They want us to fly at night now we are so few. Porter nodded off in his cockpit. When I do sleep, my mind still flies.

Peter presses his wedding ring into my hand. “Send her this,” he says. “I know I won’t be coming back.” 

I visit Harry. His feet are burnt, and his hands are burnt. His nose, eyes, lips. 

I watch Burrell nosedive into the waves.

We say we’re not scared, but who in England ever prayed for bad weather? We pray very hard. The sky stays blue as eternity. 

I will never send you this, Ma.

Glorious weather. That’s all I can say.