By James Ruin
My men tossed me out of the plane at thirty thousand feet—without a parachute. I have one hundred and seventy eight seconds to live.
I find myself praying for aliens to exist.
The wind turns the world surreal; I envision flying saucers coming at me in blurry white lines. I was going to turn my men over to the MPs for shooting an immigrant seeking asylum as they conducted border security.
Now, I seek asylum from little green men.
Seventy stories up and falling. Wait—there they are.
Their hands held up—brown, black, red, yellow, white—to catch me.
Perfect landing!
Brown of the earth, red of blood…
so powerful and beautiful. a sad story of the fight for democracy.