Melody York

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Mid-Flight Crisis

We’re two hours into the flight, and the guy next to me will not shut the hell up. The man’s a behemoth—barely fits into his seat with his bulky sweatshirt, his right leg sprawling into the aisle, his left hogging most of my legroom. I hug my briefcase to my chest, pancaked against the airplane window of Seat 18A.

“So, that got me thinking: what am I even doing with my life? Boring-ass quests for another two centuries? It’s killing me,” the guy says. He takes a swig out of a faux-gold thermos, reeking of alcohol. Brown driblets trickle into his thick, peppery beard. “I mean, I’m workin’ a job right now for a Storm Sorcerer who’s afraid of heights. Yet here I am, followin’ her orders like a frickin’ faehound. Can you believe that, Pete? It’s Pete, right?”

I’m showing zero interest in this lunatic and his piss-drunk, nonsensical rambling—one-word responses, neutral expression, frequent glances at my phone.

I’m also starting to see where Lorraine was coming from a few days ago. 

“I need you to utilize a more open communication style,” she said, hand on her hip as I absentmindedly packed my briefcase for this week’s business trip. Her ring finger was bare, the wedding band ditched on her nightstand.

“It’s always, ‘Hey Valric, there’s a brigade of kobold mages scheming to plunder my small-to-medium-sized township in Bumfuck-Nowhere, Nebraska. Bring your axe, strike at dawn, breakfast will be provided. Yada yada.’ But never, ‘Hey Valric, how about we party with the kobolds for once. Heard they can boogie. Maybe they’ll be too hungover to plunder.’ All work, no play. No goddamned variety. You feel me?”

I’ve had more than enough of Valric. I’ll show YOU an “open communication style,” I think.

I stare him dead in the eyes, get my AirPods from my briefcase, and stick them in my ears.

He plucks the AirPods out, placing them in my hand.

“You feel me?” he repeats.

“Do you want to… party with kobalts, or something?” I ask.

“I mean, no, but I’ve never had the option. That’s my point. Are you even listening?”

I peek at my watch. 7:54pm. Twenty minutes left to Chicago. Never thought I’d look forward to getting home.

“You know what?” he says. “I need somethin’ new in my life. Exciting. Big.” He makes a sweeping gesture. Alcohol splashes out of his thermos and onto my khakis.

My hundred-dollar khakis.

I gawk at the brown stain on my knee, then back at Valric. He’s oblivious to his mistake, prattling on. I can’t hear him over the rage pounding in my ears.

Lorraine cracked open a bottle of pineapple juice. “My coworker Derrick asked me to get drinks sometime,” she said, pouring herself a brimming glass. “Should I go? He’s a GREAT communicator.”

I shrugged, feeling numb, and grabbed my AirPods for the plane.

“You’re just gonna sit there and let it happen?” Lorraine asked. She scoffed. “You’ve got NO balls, Pete. None at all.”

I snatch the stupid golden thermos from Valric’s hand and take a big gulp. The booze burns like hell as it goes down. But it’s nothing I can’t handle after fifteen years of drinking through a loveless marriage.

I give him a nasty grin. That’ll teach him to respect personal space, I think. And if THAT ain’t balls, I don’t know what is.

Valric’s mouth is agape, a mixture of bewilderment and morbid curiosity in his eyes.

“Oh, fuck,” he says.

My eyes start stinging like crazy. I blink hard. It feels like a thick, cloudy film has been peeled off from my senses. The fluorescent lights glow brighter. There’s a strange crispness in the cabin’s humid, mothball-scented air, raising the hairs on the nape of my neck.

Nausea roils in my stomach; I look down at the thermos. Its metal exterior gleams much brighter than it used to, and the liquid inside—which looked like beer just seconds ago—is now pink and bubbling.

I whip my head toward Valric. My jaw drops. His skin is a ruddy green color, his peppery beard replaced by a set of tusks, his sweatshirt morphed into a bronze breastplate.

My hands begin to shake, and I drop the thermos. The liquid spills all over my khakis. “What… what did I just—”

“Arcane ale. Extra high magic content. Brewed it myself,” Valric says. He grins. “You’re ’bout to see some shit, bud.”

The plane lurches violently to the left, slamming me into the window. My briefcase clatters to the ground. There’s a flash of light in the cloudy night sky, followed by rumbling thunder and an ear-splitting screech.

“Well, that’ll be the lightning dragon,” Valric says.

“Lightning dragon?”

“I’m workin’ for a Storm Sorcerer. Afraid of heights, remember? Huge investor in the airline. Wants this lightning dragon slain. Keeps eatin’ the passengers.” He shakes his head. “You really weren’t listening, were you?”

Valric steps into the aisle, opens the overhead compartment, and takes out a tiny leather satchel.

“What’s your line of work?” he asks.

“Uh… s-senior sales consultant,” I stutter.

“A thief, huh? Any weapon proficiencies?”

I shake my head.

“Well, they say words are mightier than the sword. Somethin’ like that,” Valric says. He pulls a comically large axe from his small bag, then leans down and picks up the golden thermos. “Maybe not right now, but still. Hold this.” He shoves the thermos into my hands.

I stare at him, speechless.

“Alright. Let’s get to dragon-slayin’,” he says.

My stomach drops. “I… this isn’t real. I’m staying here.”

Valric yanks me up by my tie. “Nahhhh. You just spilled all my hooch. Now you’ve gotta help.”

The plane lurches to the right this time. There’s another shrill screech and a lightning strike. It’s complete chaos: carry-on bags crashing into the aisle, napkins and wrappers whirling around in mini-tornadoes, an unmanned beverage cart careening back and forth. But despite the pandemonium, no one seems bothered.

“Attention all passengers,” says a bored-sounding pilot over the loudspeaker. “We’ll be experiencing some light turbulence while we descend. Please remain seated.”

I gape at Valric. “Why is no one—”

“Humans only see what they wanna!” Valric yells over the cacophony. He smirks. “Except for you, of course. Right now, you’ve got magic in your blood. You’ll see everything, like it or not!”

Blue lightning zig-zags across the ceiling, frying the illuminated “Fasten Your Seatbelt” and “No Smoking” signs as it races toward the front. It intensifies at Row 10 or so, energy spiraling downwards into the center of the aisle. Bluish-green flesh sprouts within the empty spaces between the bolts. 

At first, I’m certain Valric is wrong about this creature. It must be some kind of dog, I figure—it’s only a hair taller than the seats’ armrests. But then, its body ripples into full tangibility. Crackling energy outlines the ridges between its scales, traveling down to a long tail with razor-sharp spikes, spurting out sparks like a broken electrical cord. Its head materializes last, revealing yellow, reptilian eyes glowing like headlights, its mouth curled upwards into a crooked sneer.

Lightning dragon.

The lightning dragon lets out a thunderous roar, electricity shooting from its maw. It looks up at an old lady playing Sudoku in Seat 10B, licking its staticky lips.

“Hey! Sparky!” Valric shouts.

The dragon’s eyes dart toward us.

Valric shoves me into the aisle, and I fall flat on my back. He points to the thermos in my hands. “Here’s that gold you’ve been smellin’! Plus human flesh, gratis.” He salutes to me with a cheeky grin. “Nice knowing ya, Pete!”

I look at Sparky in horror. It squawks and bounds toward me.

I’m paralyzed for a moment, my breath quickening. Then, I scramble to my feet and chuck the golden thermos. It smacks the dragon square in the face with a metallic clang.

Sparky pauses, watching the thermos roll under the seats. It looks sharply back at me, eyes flickering.

Shit.

The dragon shrieks, sprinting at me with renewed ferocity.

I turn around and book it, stumbling down the narrow aisle as the plane violently teeters back and forth. An overhead compartment busts open in front of me. Thrusting my right arm against the back of a headrest, I’m able to hold myself back and stop dead in my tracks, narrowly avoiding a duffel bag-induced lobotomy as it crashes into the aisle.

“Dude! Can’t you walk?”

A tattoo-covered guy is glaring at me to my right, holding a half-empty cup of orange soda. The rest of it has spilled onto his cargo shorts, still fizzling. My hand is gripping the back of his headrest.

“Can’t you see?” I sputter, pointing to Sparky, who’s rapidly clambering over fallen luggage. “There’s a dragon!”

His gaze follows my finger. I see his eyes widen for a moment, then glaze over.

“Dragon… uh…” He blinks hard, vigorously shakes his head, and returns his glower to me. “Damn right, you were draggin’. Draggin’ those feet. Clumsy khaki-pantsed fuck.” 

The plane plummets down, and I’m jerked back into the aisle.  I’m facing Sparky again, watching it rapidly approach.

No time to run. I frantically look around for a Plan B. Then, the rogue beverage cart rams into my back, and I’m knocked several feet forward, face-first. Several two-liter bottles of soda tumble into the aisle.

Sparky’s almost upon me. Desperate, I grab a shaken-up Coke to my right, aim it, and twist off the cap. The dragon falls back with a cry as it’s doused with a stream of soda, scales sparking and smoking.

The pain in Sparky’s eyes fills me with an odd, satisfying rush of adrenaline—not quite rage, but something adjacent to it. It starts a fire in my heart, burning down to my fingertips. I drop the Coke and clench my fists, white-knuckled.

“My coworker Derrick asked me to get drinks sometime.”

My briefcase slides forward, within reach.

“You’re just gonna sit there and let it happen?”

I clutch the handle and stagger to my feet, taking a step toward the writhing dragon, its eyes wide with fear.

“You’ve got NO balls, Pete. None at all.”

I slam my briefcase onto Sparky’s head. There’s a deafening thunderclap on impact, and I stumble backwards.

Sparky jumps up and pins me down. The dragon’s skull is concave, one of its eyes fizzled to a crisp. It opens its broken jaw with a gurgling growl, a ball of electricity building in the back of its throat. Before I can consider my last words, I hear a voice from behind me.

“Lights out!” Valric shouts.

His axe—the blade now glowing purple—rips clean through Sparky’s neck. Crackling blood sprays everywhere, hissing as it speckles a few unfortunate passengers’ faces. They pay it no mind.

Sparky’s head plops onto my thighs, tongue lolling, the light fading from its remaining eye. Blood pools from its neck stump. My khakis are done for.

“Sorry ’bout the thermos thing,” Valric says. “Needed a distraction while I enchanted my axe. Dragons love gold stuff. And you look like easy dinner, too.” He nudges Sparky’s head off my legs, extending a hand.

I take it, barely hearing him, my ears ringing. Then, I feel a tap on my shoulder. I jump and turn towards a frowning flight attendant.

“Excuse me, sir,” he says, eyes narrowed. “I know you got dizzy and all, but… you will need to pay for that Coke you just spilled.”

Hands trembling, I manage to fish my wallet out of my soggy pants, give the flight attendant a damp wad of cash, and then trundle back to my seat. My breathing slows, but I still feel the sharp pressure where Sparky dug its talons into my chest. I put my hand to my heart. It’s beating faster than it has in years.

I’m jerked back to reality by the crackling of the loudspeaker.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Chicago,” says the pilot.

The flickering “Fasten Your Seatbelt” signs turn off. There’s a cacophony of unbuckling seatbelts and low-grade chatter. Passengers file out into the aisle, picking up their singed luggage with blank stares. The tattoo-covered guy absentmindedly flips me the bird while stepping over the dragon’s corpse.

I look at Valric. “Am I stuck seeing all this? Forever?”

He laughs, stuffing his bloodied axe into his satchel. “What? No. It’s magic ale. You’ll sober up.”

I look down at my khakis. Sure enough, the ale stains are already more brown than pink.

We shuffle to the front of the plane. The remnants of the battle disappear before my eyes. No fizzled-out lights. Zero scorch marks on the ceiling. Even the napkins I saw whirling in the air now sit in a neat pile on the beverage cart. 

There’s a sinking feeling in my gut as we exit—that rage-adjacent rush wearing off, I suppose. I notice Valric studying me closely, his eyes narrowed with a smirk.

When we reach the gate, he taps my shoulder, then rummages through his satchel. He takes out a smooth black rock and tosses it to me.

I eye it warily. “What’s this?”

“Sending Stone. Speak into it and I’ll answer,” Valric says. “I’m an adventurer-for-hire. It’s usually ‘all work,’ like I said. But occasionally there are fun surprises.” He gives me a playful punch.

I sigh, looking down at my khakis again. “More of a setback than a surprise, really. These pants cost me a fortune.”

“Well… questing pays pretty good.” He smiles. “You know. In case you wanna be stuck seeing all this.”

“Why would I want that?”

Valric shrugs. “You look a little bummed. Might be a good change of pace. For both of us, I mean.”

“I… uh…” I let out a jittery laugh, massaging the back of my neck. “I don’t know. Or… that’s not… I’m fine. I’m good. Everything’s good. With me, I mean.”

Valric’s mouth twitches into a frown, his eyebrows furrowing. He shrugs. “Alright then. Suit yourself.”

He salutes to me again, this time without the cheeky grin.

“Nice knowing ya, Pete.”

He walks away, disappearing into a bustling crowd of travelers.

The next thirty minutes are a monotonous blur. I start going through my routine on autopilot. Baggage claim. Order an Uber. Put on a podcast. I concede to the life that’s planned for me: a soul-sucking job requiring khakis I can’t afford, a marriage I’ve watched crumble without lifting a finger. Apathy is a fundamental part of my existence.

I can practically feel that cloudy, anti-magic film sticking to my eyelids.

But as I put in my AirPods, waiting for my ride in the blustery winter night, I pause. My mind races with the evening’s events: Valric’s rant, the plane’s lurches, the dragon’s shrieks. I recall the odd rush of not-quite-rage I felt while cracking Sparky’s skull, and suddenly, I pinpoint the feeling. Excitement.

The AirPods go back in my briefcase.

My phone buzzes.

Im tippppsy after happy Hour. Probly shouldnt drive home, reads a text from Lorraine. Spennding the nite at Derricks. Dont call.

I inhale sharply, her words stabbing into my lungs, piercing through my awakened heart.

“I need to utilize a more open communication style,” I say.

Before I can second-guess myself, I take the Sending Stone out of my ale-soaked pocket.

“Hey, Valric. It’s Pete. I’d love a change of pace, actually.”

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Photo by flyadeal, Unsplash, 2025