9:11, 411, 911, 9/11

      

       by Mikal David Huber © 2006

The alarm went off.

He hit the snooze button,

rolled over,

tried to recapture that dream

before it was too late.

~~~~~~~~~~

She stepped from the Yellow Cab,

almost late for her flight,

tripped and broke a heel,

hobbled through the Terminal,

the last person to board

United Flight 93.

They had to hold the gate for her.

As she limped down the walkway,
a flight attendant came forward
to meet her with a plastic smile
and asked if she needed
a wheelchair.

She smiled, shook her head.

And stumbled to her seat.

~~~~~~~

He laughed as he closed the script
from that screenwriter
up in Canada.
He smiled, remembering
the great dialog
and nodded his head.

He opened his laptop,
went into his email,
looked for the phone number.
The guy hadn't provided it,
but he had his address.

He dialed 411 for the number.

Waiting. La-dee-dah, la dee-

A loud BOOM,
some sort of explosion.

He dropped the phone,
rushed to the window.

Smoke billowed from the other Tower.
A lot of smoke.

He staggered back from the window.

~~~~~~~~~

She tried to relax,
but flying always made her
so anxious.

The flight attendant was doing
demonstrative semaphore in the aisle.
That always made her laugh,
like at some mad mime dancing.

She slept for a while,
somehow.
Not enough sleep last night.
Worried about going back
to San Raphael,
back to the magazine--
if her job was still there
after the way she spoke
to Marge at that last meeting.

~~~~~~~~

At nine eleven,
he woke up,
rolled over
and hit the remote
to watch Regis.
The CTV had interrupted
the Network feed
for something American.
He closed one eye, squinting.
Did he leave his glasses
in the bathroom again?

What was that, anyway?
Some sort of fire,
a Skyscraper of some sort.
Man, they shouldn't build buildings
higher than the ladders could reach,
it was just asking for trouble.
Shit!
Was that a plane
sticking out of the side?
He clicked off the MUTE
and the horrible words
came booming out.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Weird how that one guy
in the next seat ahead
kept looking around.
Was he as nervous as she was?
She tried to make eye contact,
to give him a reassuring smile,
but his eyes snapped away from hers,
and he hunkered down in his seat
out of view.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The 411 Operator was repeating
the number he'd requested,
but he cut her off mid-syllable

and dialed 911.

It rang,
and rang
and rang.

Then it went dead.

________________

 

My life has been so damned strange, the only thing I could do was to become a writer. I surely have enough "fodder" for a million stories.

I was born in the late fifties, raised in the turbulent sixties, and on my own by 1970 at the age of fourteen. I am a Canadian of Irish/Swiss descent, and have been writing professionally for over twenty years.

I have almost two decades of professional acting work behind me, on stage, in film, TV and commercials. 

In the seventies I published under the name Michael Davidson, as I was living illegally in the States (gasp!) . As Davidson, I have two long OOP Sci-Fi novels:

Davidson, Michael Daughter of Is Popular Library, 1978  Terraformers play God.

Davidson, Michael The Karma Machine Popular Library, 1977  Cybernetic Buddhist Fable.

Over the last few years, I have turned to screenwriting, and have ten "final" screenplays, with another eight in various stages of completion.

I currently read and do script analysis for the Hidden Talent Agency.

Here's a link to my web site Trutopia