For the Terribleminds challenge, Write What You Know, I decided to both fictionalize and sensationalize the car crash I was in.

It’s funny how your brain starts click on after it’s been smacked around.

First thing I get is a smell. Gasoline, or something more potent. Imagine that smell you can’t get off your fingers after filling up your car at a two-bit gas station, then multiply it by about twenty. That’s what I’m smelling. I blink, and as soon as the light show in my eyes is done, I’m looking out the windscreen of a small, one-prop airplane. I remember getting in it; I remember flying towards Cusco; I remember needing to sneeze. Pollen, probably. My sinuses hate that shit with an unholy passion. I remember all of that, the date, the current President, my name.

I certainly didn’t remember laying on my side in my Beechcraft.

Normally if I’m sideways in a plane, I’m trying to do something fancy, to get out of trouble or to impress a girl. I’m not that flashy a pilot. It’s never been a major skill for me. Not like the self-defense course I’ve been taking. But that still doesn’t explain how I ended up nintey degrees to my left from upright in the middle of a rainforest.

I think back, trying to remember how I ended up here. It takes me a second; my brain must have been rattled pretty good in the crash. My bag ended up in the window to my left. Inside are the letters I got from the British Museum and the Smithsonian, a few days of rations, my canteen, water purification tablets, first aid kit, GPS locator, a couple flares, some ammunition, good old-fashioned matches, and a map. It’s old, laid out on some sort of animal hide – Druthers in London likes to think it’s human flesh, but it’s definitely not that, probably some sort of cow or pig hide. The point is it’s a map to Huayna Capac’s Tomb.

I use the history to get my head back together. Story goes that Huayna Capac was taken by disease before Cortez showed up, which touched off a nasty war for ascension. His wife and closest friends, according to the tale, carried his body, that of his son, and a good portion of his belongings to this secret place to keep them away from the invaders. The US and the UK have already worked out a deal: if I can find these treasures, they’ll spend half the year in Washington, the other half in London, occasionally getting loaned out around the world for a substantial sum. I’m entitled to a cut of it. If I live.

I gather up my bag as well as I can, unbuckling myself from the pilot’s seat. Getting myself upright is a bit of a chore. I look out my side window again, towards the ground. I see, instead of dirt, a lot of aluminum. The wing clearly snapped when I hit the canopy of the jungle. That explains the smell. Fuel is leaking, and that’s never a good sign.

I can’t open the passenger door, with gravity against me, but I can wind down the window. The plane was made for low altitude short flights, not high-speed trips at high altitudes where you have to worry about cabin pressure. It felt a shame to leave her like this, after several successful years together, and after the trouble of getting her onto the freighter that brought me down here. But I didn’t really have a choice. A part of my brain is asking me how I’m going to get out of the forest, but I hush it. One problem at a time.

I reach up and pull myself out of the plane. Sure enough, she’s leaking from her left side, and one of her engine panels is loose. I’m not sure if anything is loose in there, but it’s best if I get out as quickly as possible. I’m turning towards the trees before I remember something important.

I look back down into the plane, and it’s up against the windscreen. I stretch out and reach, the tips of my fingers brushing the leather. I got this akubra during my first trip to the Outback, from the man who taught me everything I know about surviving in the wild and not dying to poisonous bites and my own panic reflex, and I’m not about to leave it behind.

I hear a hiss from the engine compartment. That’s my cue. I grab the hat, slap it on my noggin, and jump from the fuselage. I get about ten paces from the plane at a dead run before the damn thing goes up in a really nasty fireball. The forest around me starts catching fire, and I keep running. I don’t stop until the fire’s a dull red glow behind me. It starts raining; that should help keep the damage to a minimum.

I check my inventory again, draw my revolver to make sure it’s not damaged (there’s no way in hell I’d bring an autoloader to the jungle – too much can go wrong with complex machines), and drink down a bit of water. I check the map, and pull out the compass I keep strapped to my belt.

I’ll figure out how I’m getting home first. I’d rather not get back to the States with only my swank hat to show for my trouble.

My entry for the flash fiction challenge Inspiration from Inexplicable Photos:

She’d gotten as far she could before her legs decided it was time for a break.

Martina counted herself lucky as she sat in the middle of the airport, leaning against a post, not a meter from a packed bench. People hustled and bustled past her. She caught snippets of conversation. Something about a performance troupe? Anyway, she wasn’t in terrible shape. Her heels, not well suited for her flight but kick-ass in look, had gotten her from his front door to here without too much stumbling.

This was going to happen sooner or later, she thought as she lit up a cigarette (what were they going to do, arrest her? Nothing new there.) and studied those heels. Good shoes and top-shelf booze could only keep her ignorant to the truth for so long. If anybody were to ask, it wasn’t the women on the side or the gambling or the elbow-rubbing with bad people she minded; in fact, some of those things were what had attracted her to him in the first place. No, it was the neglect. Being taken for granted. Putting unrealistic expectations on her and then flying into a rage when she fell short.

Martina thought back to one of the first serious conversations they’d had, after a night on the town followed by lovemaking on the roof of her flat. “I’m not housewife material, you know. I don’t do well when all the responsibilities of home are foisted upon me. To me, Dragomir, a relationship’s a partnership. We do these things together, or not at all.”

She blew smoke. It didn’t seem unreasonable, even after two years. But the truth was that he didn’t think it unreasonable. The truth was far, far worse.

She glanced around, but couldn’t see any cameras other than airport’s little black security domes all over the place. She fought the urge to show them her finger. Most days she worried about who might see her, who might realize who she was. Not today, though. There was too much bourbon and nicotine in her bloodstream to facilitate giving a shit. If her father knew she was here, in this state, he’d probably be furious. That made her smile.

It was because he’d be even more enraged when she told him why. Her father had been tolerant of her relationship, cordial with Dragonmir during the one dinner they’d shared. Even then, she hadn’t put two and two together. But looking back, she could see through his mask. The bastard had been far more interested in endearing himself to her father than just enjoying the meal or assuring her father that she was being looked after.

She looked at her heels again. He was always dressing her up. Every week or so, another club or event would require his presence, and that meant she needed to be on his arm, smiling and looking gorgeous. He wanted to be seen with her, to make sure others saw her with him, to draw conclusions based on how close she was to him.

It wasn’t as if her father was that terribly important. He’d taken a banking career into politics relatively quickly, certainly, and the paparazzi often sought sordid details on how he, not quite 40, felt about his only daughter being seen out and about at all hours of the evening. She’d learned in her early teens to dodge their annoying cameras and incessant caterwauling, and Dragomir did not go so far as to push them in front of those cameras. But he still made sure important and dangerous men drew the conclusions he wanted. He still dressed her up and brought her along to deepen and thicken his clout.

He still used her.

Martina threw the cigarette away. Getting to her feet was not as smooth as she would have liked. She picked up her purse from where she’d left it, pinned between the small of her back and the pole. The cash in her purse would serve her quite well. Dragomir had never been terribly circumspect in hiding where he kept his safe, and the combination was his birthday. She walked towards the gates, musing to herself that he might be handsome and ambitious, but smart was not among his qualities.

There was commotion behind her. She glanced over her shoulder, and caught sight of him. Dragomir. His shirt was wrinkled and he had a black eye. Three men were behind him, all large and broad-shouldered, no long hair, beady eyes. The last time she’d seen men like that, they’d been in the company of some well-to-do man with all of the personality and attractiveness of an oil slick. She wondered what exactly their business was with Dragomir. But, again, giving a shit was beyond her capacity.

Some of the performers in the lounge area accosted Dragomir and his big friends. This suited her just fine. Martina didn’t know any of them, but she was glad they were who they were, just trying to earn some coin by being amusing or entertaining. It let her get a few more steps ahead. She pulled her ticket and passport from her purse as she approached the security checkpoint.

She glanced behind her again. At least one of the big guys was dipping a hand under his jacket. She picked up her pace to reach the checkpoint. There were only two people ahead of her, and both of them got their pockets empty before walking through the metal detector. Martina grinned. One advantage to wearing a dress with no pockets was never needing to check them for spare change.

She breezed right through, picking up her purse on the other side of the conveyor. She turned fully, seeing Dragomir standing there, a crestfallen and hopeless look on his face. His three friends stared blankly, two of them already grabbing him by the arms.

She smiled brightly and said good-bye with a single finger.

Next stop? Somewhere nobody will know me, or my father. Somewhere I can start over.

This week’s challenge was a bit different. The task was, “tell a story in three haikus.” I played with a couple ideas before settling on this one. Enjoy.

My cat ate a gem.
It belonged to a smuggler.
Now we’re in big trouble.

The chase was merry,
From Rome to Moscow to Prague –
Bond would be jealous.

“Don’t touch my damn cat.”
Gunsmoke behind the tavern –
Sorry ’bout the mess.