AIR

I thought it would be silent, but the wind roars in my ears. My hair streams behind me, like a model at a photo shoot. My clothing flaps noisily and I marvel at how cold I feel. I didn’t expect it to be this chilly in the middle of summer.

People jump out of planes and off buildings for a thrill, but I feel calm and at peace. I wonder if their rush comes from their gamble of safety. Are they concerned their parachute won’t open? Do they think they’re plummeting to their death? Is that where the thrill comes from? Fear? I don’t understand why they would be drawn to this if this is the case.

I don’t worry about whether my chute will open, or if some harm will come to me. My eyes are open, figuratively speaking, because right now my eyes are screwed tightly shut. The wind is hurting them as I plunge toward the earth.

I open them now because I need to see. I don’t have goggles. I don’t have those baggy onesies that the professionals wear. I don’t have a parachute.

The ground rushes up faster than I expected, and my last thought is one of surprise.

FIRE

The crackle of flames warms my skin and I feel it tighten in response. It is not a pleasant sensation so I move further back.

The fire before me spits like a hostile animal, yet it moves fluidly like water. How can opposites be so similar? I’ve read somewhere that water is the strongest element because it can erode anything given enough time. I disagree; the fire before me draws the water out of my body and hot air parches my throat.

I make my way to the window. It has become a gaping space without glass. With nowhere to go, I turn and watch as papers catch alight and flutter through the air. The fire gains strength as it eats a path towards me. Acrid smoke plumes and sends blind, seeking fingers along the ceiling. The wind at this altitude is strong and it saves me from choking.

I have a decision to make as the fire corners me. The screams of pain uttered by my co-workers make my choice clear. The fact of death remains, it’s the mystery of the making that propels me to the edge.

Some cannot bring themselves to jump. I am not one of them.

WATER

I can’t breathe. Everything is dark. I am aware of lying in a strange position; my arm is pinned above my head and my wrist is aching. I can’t move at all. The cloying sensation of rising panic threatens to overwhelm me but I know it won’t help. I cry out but I can hear other people screaming in fear and pain. My voice blends in with theirs so I stop.

My eyes have adjusted to the darkness and now I can see a glimpse of light. I shuffle and kick my feet simultaneously and something shifts off my legs. More shuffling and kicking dislodges a weight from my chest. I can now move one of my arms and I shove debris off myself.

When I climb out of the wreckage, I am stunned by what I see. The place where I work looks like it’s been hit by a bomb. Water gushes into the open-plan offices from the floor above. Sparks zap and fly from the photocopier and I have just enough time to realise the danger of it when a flare of light explodes from the machine. I am not standing in a puddle of water but most of my co-workers are. They are launched off their feet like movie stunt doubles, except there is no entertainment here. Only death.

EARTH

Hot coffee leaps out of my cup and splashes over my wrist. I am pitched to one side and smack my shin against a partition wall before it topples. I notice the stain of spilt coffee on the carpet and wonder if I can get it out.

A desk is doing the hula and a typist chair spins a pirouette. This impromptu dance hall is filled with furniture, punctuated by the odd shriek. I cradle my hurting hand against my chest and crawl awkwardly to take cover from falling ceiling panels.

I can hear someone issuing orders but the voice is distant and irrelevant. My ears are filled with sounds of rumbling and my mind struggles to make sense of what I’m seeing.

The earthquake has made the building come alive; the walls are breathing in and out and I feel trapped in the belly of a concrete monster. Lights and computer monitors sputter their discontent as one by one they grow dark, consumed by the beast.

Two people are cramped in the nook beneath the closest desk. Their faces belong to friends but their expressions make them strangers. I continue to the next desk but cannot reach it before the ceiling lets out a huge crack and half of the floor above descends upon me.

My eyes close as the darkness becomes complete.

© Delia Strange 2014, All rights reserved.
This is one of the stories found in ‘Blue Shift’