The flight attendants did one last cabin check before takeoff, blissfully unaware that, soon after leaving the runway, our plane was going to crash in a blazing holocaust.
But I knew.
I’d had a premonition – I’d seen the flames, heard the screams, felt the hulking machine hurtle toward earth like a skyscraper fallen from the clouds.
Granted, I got this premonition every time I flew, but tonight it felt different, deep in my gut.
MORE of this essay appears in Cezanne’s Carrot, a journal of literary fiction.