I started falling just about thirty hours ago.
The orbital pilot training program was supposed to teach us how to deal with weightlessness, but some pilots never successfully adapt. It’s not any fault of the pilot. It’s just my inner ear won’t stop screaming: “Hey help we’re falling do something save us save us save us!”
My semicircular canals have teamed up with my vestibular nerves to urge me to run screaming, every moment. Doc wants me to go under, anesthesia, before my adrenals shut down permanently.
Perhaps I should have listened and accepted my severance when they washed me out of the program? This stowaway idea was terrible.
Without gravity I can’t even tell which way is down. Through this airlock?
Now I’m strapped into the commander’s seat and drugged, that’s better.
I may be screaming. Somehow, I don’t hear a sound.
143 words, in response to this week’s Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers prompt:
My apologies to Peter Gabriel and Afro Celt Sound System, unfortunately some of the lyrics just fit the tale perfectly:
ParkInkSpot 