All Those Airplanes Scare Him

All those airplanes scare him. All his life he has lived under one flight path or another. Even now in Thailand. In Bangkok. Dom Muang airport just around the corner. Bang Saen. New airport built, flight path directly overhead. Los Angeles. Apartment complex next to Los Angeles International. A plane a minute when he was a kid. He doesn’t know when one will kill him. A prayer every time he takes a flight. He is Cain, and at the moment not very able.
Even in Bangkok the little blinking red beacon was just below his balcony. The pilots used it to guide their ships in. They had things to off-load. The planes remind him that he has to find a place with no birds. They follow him. There are other ships, off loading other things more pertinent to man, but at the time Charls doesn’t know that. A ship is waiting, not far away, with a plan for the human race. The surface of the planet is being photographed, as if by Google, and images are being uploaded to the Akashic Record. Memories and photographs—time in a bottle—a bottle with a message thrown into the sea— of eternity and space. An effort to write things down before the experiment is terminated.
Who will find it and know Plan B?

He takes his seat. It’s next to an emergency exit. It is a window seat. The thing he doesn’t like is that he is sitting above the wing. At least it’s just a fifty minute flight. Tic…tic…tic…

ANTS

Each day when he empties a bottle of water tic…tic…tic… he writes a short note and puts it in the bottle and tosses it in the water. Half out of his mind now. The birds are sick. It will soon be too late.

The plane is taxiing, take-off eminent. Little man—carefully clinging to the wing. Another man in a chair, hands clasped in prayer. Take-off and landing—he always has a few words with God then. He is on his way to Vientiane to renew a visa—a routine task, only daunting because he is insane. He found something on the island.

ANTS

Not all is right in Japan either. There is a rash of incidents—men walking into elementary schools and stabbing kids.
Golem thinks, after having lived in a big building full of middle-class Japanese who seemed to have in common as an ambition the creation of kids, and after having watched mothers congregate beneath umbrellas in the park across the street, telling all the latest gossip, and living for their creations, and climbing the social ladder, and on top of it all, like icing on a cake—the men stabbing children in Japan, that some are protesting a land that seems to base everything on the family. It is too much for some souls—Not an explanation of motivation, but more of an observation, because Golem, too, had been tempted to call that building a baby-factory.