How many people do you know who have actually died in plane crashes? Charlie Miller is pondering this very question as he sits on a plane that is halfway between London and Madrid. The plane shudders again and a stewardess rushes by.

He isn’t even sure why he’s on this flight. Well, he knows why he’s on it: he’s going to visit his mother who lives in Madrid. What Charlie isn’t sure about is why he’s going to visit her in the first place.

The same stewardess now rushes back the other way. If she is trying to look calm, she is not doing a particularly good job.

He doesn’t even like his mother. Nonetheless she is his mother, and sons are supposed to visit their mothers. He no longer insists that Andrea and their two boys, Jack and Scott, accompany him on his irregular trips to Madrid. Why should they have to deal with her?

The reason Charlie Miller is thinking about people dying in plane crashes is because the plane he is on is about to crash, killing everyone on board. Or at least that is certainly the impression he has been given by the crew, the other passengers and the overwhelming sense of fear that has been sweeping through the plane since the captain revealed that one of the engines was on fire.

“Ladies and gentlemen, at this time, we ask you to remain seated and not panic,” the stewardess’s voice says again over the intercom. It is the same stewardess who was offering special value duty free deals only half an hour ago. She actually sounds quite sincere now. The plane is bumping around all over the place, and Charlie’s heart and stomach are continually swapping places. Charlie wonders if telling people not to panic is really a good way to get people not to panic.

“The captain is doing everything he can to ensure a safe landing,” the stewardess continues. “So please everybody sit down and keep your seatbelts on. Please sit down.”

Sometimes, these intercom things on planes are really hard to understand. This one, though, has perfect sound quality. The stewardess’s voice is crisp and clear and full of doubt and panic. If a plane is going to crash, the channels of communication between crew and passengers should really be as clear as possible. The airline is to be commended for that.

The plane lurches downwards again, as if it has fallen a hundred feet in a second. Charlie’s stomach jumps past his heart and makes for his brain. He grips the armrests on his seat with all his strength and breathes in and out, in and out, in and out. Relax, relax. In and out, in and out. There is no point in panicking. Breathe slowly. There is no point in panicking. In. And out.

There are women screaming, children crying and babies wailing, while most of the men appear to be doing all three at the same time.

Charlie is scared, but he doesn’t want to add to the hysteria around him by getting hysterical. Charlie remembers his English teacher in school telling him that men can’t actually get hysterical because they don’t have wombs, the word ‘hysteria’ being derived from the Greek word for a womb. Mr Carruthers knew his stuff alright, but all the boys in school reckoned he was gay and that’s why he was a teacher in an all-boys’ school. Then again, most of the boys reckoned most of the teachers and most of the other boys were also gay, because that was their favourite term of abuse.

The older couple sitting beside him are not panicking either. They are praying. They are holding hands, have their eyes closed and are praying. They are mumbling words under their breath in unison. Well almost in unison. Charlie reckons the woman is about half a second ahead of her husband. She’ll probably make it into heaven first. Charlie can stare at them as much as he likes because they are not going to open their eyes. The woman has the deepest wrinkles around her eyes and Charlie imagines himself riding his motorbike through the crevasses of her old skin. The man has thick tufts of grey sprouting from his wizened ears.

Beyond them, Charlie can see that there is plenty of black and grey smoke coming from the wing. It is dark and stormy outside – all the best plane crashes happen when it is dark and stormy – but he can clearly see the billowing smoke. He can’t see any flames, but it is perhaps too late for him to present his thesis to the world that there actually can be smoke without fire.

Then, Charlie spots the flames, which is lucky because he might have made a fool of himself if he had gone on a world tour telling anyone who would listen that, once when he was on a plane that was about to crash, he actually saw smoke without fire. That was a close shave, Charlie smiles to himself.

A woman in front of Charlie is crying and saying over and over again: “It’s ok, baby. It’s ok, baby. It’s ok, baby. It’s ok, baby.” She is saying it to her young daughter who is whimpering on her lap. Beside them is the woman’s husband who is extremely agitated. He simply can’t sit still. He is looking around him, standing up, sitting down, trying to talk to the stewardesses, stroking his daughter’s hair, kissing his wife, standing up again, biting his nails, shouting at the captain, sitting down, looking at Charlie, grabbing his own hair. None of it seems to be preventing the plane from crashing.

Charlie thinks it is interesting that a plane crash is one of those situations where you can’t really do anything to stop what’s going to happen from happening. The plane is going down, everyone’s going to die and it’s sort of out of your hands. He could shout: “Stop this plane immediately! I’m getting off before we crash into the Pyrenees.” But he doesn’t.

The plane rocks violently forward again. Charlie closes his eyes. He wonders what the stewardess would say if he got up and said: “Listen, I believe one of the engines has failed. I’m just going to nip out and see if I can do anything. My uncle was a mechanic and I picked up a few things over the years. Now get me a torch, a screwdriver, a packet of chewing gum and a black coffee. And one more thing, Doll: gimme a smile.” Then, he would kiss her hard on the lips and head for the exit door. Well, maybe not that stewardess. She’s a bit of a pig and is wearing far too much make-up, but the brunette who gave him his drink, she’d do.

From behind him, Charlie hears, amidst all the shouting and sobbing, a woman start to emit a high-pitched scream. Goddamnit, the plane is going down and everyone is scared, sure, and we’ll probably all be dead soon, but come on, lady, you’re not helping.

Her scream pierces through all the other noise. It is a primal scream, a scream from the dawn of mankind and from the end of human existence, a scream that will echo through the ages, that will be heard by our ancestors and by our children’s children. It enters Charlie’s body straight through his heart and immediately rushes to each of his extremities. It is pure fear, pure terror. It is the last noise every human being, every animal makes before it is mercilessly slaughtered.

It turns Charlie’s blood ice-cold and then burning hot and then ice-cold again in a split second. It deafens him, while at the same time allows him to hear every other sound on and off that plane. He can hear the wind and the rain and the thunder, he can hear the engines burning up, he can hear the captain’s sweat dropping onto his uniform, the stewardesses arguing in whispers about what to do, a man twenty rows back confessing all his sins to himself, a little girl’s tears falling on her security blanket, someone in front of him repeating the word ‘No’ over and over, the mumbled prayers of the couple beside him, his own breathing which sounds like someone else entirely, his heart pounding wildly against his ribcage, his thoughts crashing into each other in his brain. Then, the woman collapses, her scream stops and a stewardess runs by. Charlie starts crying.

The plane falls out of the sky again, tilting violently left, then right, then left again. People are shunted all over the place.

“Everybody sit down, please,” the stewardess insists on repeating over the intercom, though she is practically shouting it at this stage. “Please sit down. Please. Everything will be ok if everyone just sits down and doesn’t panic. And please keep your seatbelts fastened.”

Charlie throws his eyes to heaven. Keep your seatbelts fastened? This is crucial advice because when the plane eventually crashes into the side of a mountain in the Pyrenees, it is important that everybody is strapped into their seats. How would it look to investigators if people didn’t die in the seats they were allocated, but were instead wandering around the plane chatting when it crashed?

Across the aisle from him, Charlie sees the two middle-aged Spanish women who were behind him in the queue back in Heathrow. They have assumed what Charlie reckons must be the crash position. They are bent over forwards, their faces between their knees and their hands clasped together on the back of their necks. They are not moving. Charlie can see that the woman nearest him is wearing very large knickers with little pink love hearts on them which have crept up above her jeans at the back.

Charlie had never been sure how he would react if he was suddenly told he was going to die. He’d never really thought about it that much before. But here he is, on a plane that is going to crash in a matter of minutes. He can’t stop it from crashing, he can’t help anybody, all he can do is sit and wait. Somehow, assuming the crash position appeals to him about as much as panicking.

The plane shudders again. It keeps shuddering very violently for about ten seconds and then stops suddenly. For a split second, it seems to hang in the air. It can’t be possible, but Charlie thinks that there is complete silence for this split second. Then, the plane goes back to its bumping and grinding and shaking.

Three seats up the aisle to the right, Charlie spots a young Spanish man with a red bandanna on his head making a call on his mobile phone. Charlie assumes he won’t get through to anybody, but he does. He starts talking earnestly into the phone in rapid-fire Spanish. Whoever the young man is talking to can’t get a word in because he just talks and talks and talks. How rude, Charlie thinks. Charlie is not sure how telecommunications work because he is a vet – well, that’s one reason anyway – but he didn’t think you could just pick up your phone and call somebody from a plane, particularly one that is about to crash. Then Charlie remembers 9/11 and the fact that people on one of those planes were phoning their loved ones even as the plane was going down. The memory sends a shiver down his spine.

Charlie is impressed with this young Spanish man. At last, someone is using their heads and doing something intelligent. Shit! The plane jerks forward and everyone is hurled against the seats in front of them. There is more screaming. The two women in the crash position have smacked their heads badly. The family in front are all holding each other tight now. The young man has dropped his phone. He picks it up and starts talking again.

Charlie gets his phone out of his jacket and turns it on. At least, he will be able to call Andrea and say goodbye. He will be able to talk to Jackser and Scotty and tell them that he loves them. He will be able to be in touch with the three people he loves most in the world before he dies. Andrea? Jesus Christ, he loves her. Charlie starts crying again. He is now also on the verge of panic. And anger.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” he says to himself, but he is actually saying it out loud. No one cares or notices.

What the hell is he doing flying to visit his mother whom he hates and who hates him? She’s a useless old witch and because of her, he is going to die very shortly. He is going to die far away from his beloved Andrea, far away from his two boys. They’re only bloody children. How are they going to cope without their dad?

His phone indicates that he has Spanish coverage. He searches for Andrea’s number. Where would she be? Back home, giving the boys lunch. Then she’s taking them to the cinema as a Saturday afternoon treat because Dad’s away. He finds the number. He can’t wait to hear her voice. He can’t wait to hear the boys’ excitement when they hear Dad is phoning from the plane way up in the sky.

But Charlie doesn’t hit the dial button. He stares at his wife’s name on his phone. A fat man stumbling by almost falls on top of him. Charlie pushes him away. All around him are screams and shouts and panic and more panic and shrieking and mumbling and praying and crying and pain and hopelessness.

What will he say to her? “Hi baby, how’s lunch? Listen, I’m about to die. Just wanted to let you and the boys know that I love you. Don’t forget to remember me. Enjoy the cinema. Bye now.” What the hell will that achieve? Who is that going to help? Charlie starts crying again, tears of love mixing with those of desperation.

The plane drops again and then tilts forward violently. It is at a 45-degree angle now and heading downwards at speed. The praying couple beside him are hugging each other. The two Spanish women are still in the crash position, though one of them is bleeding profusely from her forehead. The young Spanish man is holding his phone in front of his mouth saying something Charlie can’t make out over and over again. He is also crying.

Charlie stares at his phone, at his wife’s name, at Andrea. Jack and Scott. My God! My God! Charlie wants to talk to her, to them, he wants to tell them something, anything, something. He wants to tell them what the secret of life is. He wants to put their minds at rest about him, about life, about this flight, about this plane crash, about death. He wants to hear their voices one more time. He wants to tell them that he loves them and will love them regardless of death. He wants them to say that they love him. He wants to hear their voices. He wants to hear their voices again. He wants to live forever. He wants to live forever with them. He doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t want his wife and sons to hear him dying. He doesn’t want them to hear him like this in the few moments he has left alive. He wants them to think he died quickly, painlessly, instantly. Charlie turns off his phone.

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Garvan Grant was born in Dublin in 1969. He has a degree in history and Italian from Trinity College Dublin and is currently Deputy Chief Sub-editor of The Sunday Business Post, one of Ireland's leading Sunday newspapers. He also writes a satirical column for the paper called PostMortem. Winning the Segora Short Story Competition is his first major achievement in creative writing.

Adjudication 2009 – Dr. Rose Jack

This was an exciting competition to judge as the overall standard was very high. Writers displayed great skill in handling the requirements of a short story such as structure, characterisation and dialogue – features that are always tricky in this compressed form. A range of issues and subjects also enlivened the judging process.

There were experiments with form, as in Black Walnut (Jackie Fellague), a clever pastiche of The Yellow Wallpaper that acknowledged its intertextual debt but renewed and refreshed the story for today’s readership.

There was scary urban realism in We Were Here First (Garvan Grant), a convincing story of emerging teenage rebellion, and in Looking South (James Coffrey) we met a dysfunctional workforce engaged in building renovation on an impoverished estate. Both these stories were adorned with sparky dialogue between a number of characters, illustrating a competence that effortlessly overcame the restrictions of the form.

The darker side of family life hung over To Be A Soldier (Rebecca Camu) where sexual abuse was revealed with considerable delicacy. What is perceived by conventional mores to be illicit love was nicely managed in To Begin Perfect Happiness (Kathleen Lee Dodd); a comic touch was used in Cleaning Up (Bruce Harris) while Giant Footprints (Rebecca Camu) offered subtle and tender observations on lost love and a painful lack of transparency in the central relationship.

Lively and appropriate humour was evident in Caren with a C (Sally Foote) and Reading the Signs (Jonathan Elsom), both treating disability with a refreshing lightness of touch.

One for My Baby (Harry Jonathan Lee) particularly impressed me, being carefully structured with overlapping and subtly-nuanced relations. The language and setting convincingly evoked a specific and appropriate mood of fond melancholy. Most striking here was that the unspoken was as powerful as the spoken, allowing the reader to fill the gaps. This was especially skilful given the technique of alternating first person narratives whereby two protagonists make revelations about themselves and each other.

Bearing in mind the complex and difficult challenges of the short story, Flight (Garvan Grant) stands out as the winner. Structurally, the story offers one compressed situation – an impending plane crash from the viewpoint of a passenger whose actions, speech and thoughts are presented in the third person. From the initial, unequivocal fact that the aircraft is malfunctioning to the full-blown awareness that there is no possible escape – all in a matter of minutes – we are taken through the stages of the effects of this process upon Charlie Miller.

All the elements are pared down to create maximum impact. The relationship of Charlie to his mother presents powerful irony: he dislikes her and is only on the plane to Madrid to visit her because of his sense of filial duty – made more poignant by his later compassion for his own family. His shifts of mood in this brief but extreme circumstance lead to a powerful climax.

Yet, strikingly, the author injects humour into this story, jostling the reader edgily between laughter and horror, jerking the reader from wry observation to a sense of total futility.

I was left in admiration of a brilliant piece of writing.

Summary

Jocelyn and Gordon Simms would like to thank all those who entered the 2^nd Segora Short Story Competition, and, of course, this year’s judge, Dr. Rose Jack of Lancaster University for her comprehensive appraisal.

We were thrilled to receive so many well-written and compelling entries which came in from nine countries. Our congratulations to the winner, Garvan Grant, and also to those whom Dr. Jack singled out for particular mention.

Winner:

Garvan Grant, Dublin, Flight

Highly Commended:

Harry Jonathan Lee, Hampshire, One For My Baby

Commended:

Rebecca Camu, Suffolk, Giant Footprints and To Be a Soldier

James Coffrey, Coventry, Looking South

Kathleen Lee Dodd, Hampshire, To Begin Perfect Happiness

Jonathan Elsom, Sydney, Reading the Signs

Clare Evans, Berkshire, Do You Think I Should Feel Guilty?

Jackie Fellague, Hamburg, Black Walnut

Sally Foote, London, Caren With a C

Garvan Grant, Dublin, We Were Here First

Bruce Harris, Devon, Cleaning Up

Patsy Trench, London, In the Eye of the Beholder