I got all A’s on my report cards in eighth grade. Solid, sustained academic achievement. And believe me, I’m not a whiz kid. I had what my parents called extrinsic motivation: my own TV for my room. That was the big thing four years ago. Very early new millennium. Anyone who was the son or daughter of anyone who logged millions of hours a pay period and charged millions in fees had one. At least I had to work for mine. I mean it wasn’t just there for me one day, sitting on my dresser like a pony waiting in the backyard or something. I had to exert some effort. Yeah, I earned that TV.

Twenty-six inches, diagonally speaking, of access to the world beyond my room. The first show I watched was Survivor, one of the first series of staged reality anything, and I was hooked. The third season, African Outback, was just starting. I think it was sometime during that first hour I realized I was destined for reality show stardom. The exoticism – the tribes, the totems, the ceremonies – got me. Lightning didn’t strike or anything like that; I just knew. And that was the beginning.

Since mom and dad were both lawyers at a pretty big name firm with offices both in Center City and in the Mainline suburbs near our house, (Can’t think of the firm’s name for the life of me: something like Finklestein, Rembrandt, Shakespeare & Associates.) they didn’t have time to consider the anti-social behavior my TV might cause or the irrevocable effect it would have on my dreams. You see, when I was five, I had wanted to be a pilot after taking my first airplane to Florida to meet the Mouse and soar through Space Mountain. In fifth grade, I had wanted to walk on the moon, baby; that year, we studied the space race right before Christmas break. A few weeks after getting my TV, I cut the crap and picked a real life goal: become a Reality Show Star. Hey, dream big or go home, right? Don’t forget, this all started back in the day when American Idol first began telling contestants to stick to the shower. You didn’t have Top Chef or Project Runway yet. “Bravo!” was barely a station. I knew it as the accolade parents used at middle school chorus concerts even though their kid sounded like a cow or fog horn. Very posh, if you ask me. Yeah, those days reality television seemed so essential, so pure, so real. Wanting to star in a reality show seemed much more substantial, more real than becoming an actor. Hey, anyone can pretend. By god, I wasn’t going to succeed at imitating life. I was going to succeed at life. At reality. No meta-anything. This was real.

You’re probably thinking who does this kid think he is. A single choirboy who can swim salt water with open eyes and sweet-talk a roommate into sex? The Ultimate Bachelor-Survivor-American Idol? Not exactly. Thanks to middle school chorus, my pipes were primed. I deserved those bravos. But Atlantic City salt water was too cold to swim no matter what time of year you went to the Jersey Shore. Let’s face it: no one went to Atlantic City to swim. I was fourteen then, and I knew that. And as a fourteen-year-old, I knew sex was what they did on fantasy dates, but they never aired that stuff. The door closes on rose petals, lit candles, a bottle of champagne, and the happy couple groping each other. I guess the producers had to set up the scene all frilly and fancy since this is TV we’re talking about, but come on. It’s reality TV. All they needed was the bed. Hey, even at fourteen I knew enough to know that when you had a hot girl, romance was superfluous. And while they’re at it, might as well leave the camera rolling. I mean, how can we respect a bachelor’s decision if we don’t know he got the chemistry right? Show aside, a fourteen-year-old reality show junkie’s gotta learn moves somewhere.

With my TV, I did okay in high school, graduating comfortably in the middle of my class. (I got good at doing homework in front of the TV. By the time I got to college, all kids were real good at that, but back in high school, I was a rarity. ‘Multitasking’ wasn’t even a word.) I spent all my graduation party money on DVDs of full seasons of my favorite reality shows. New shows were starting up all the time, but anyone who’s ever been a star of anything knows it’s about getting down to basics, going back to square one.

I left for college with one motto: You don’t need friends; you need alliances. I arrived at James Madison with a single duffle bag. After six seasons of Survivor, you can be damn sure I knew how to pack a bag – Swiss Army knife, can-opener, and all. I practiced my motto on my roommate. He could have been on the Real World: Los Angeles, all blond beach hair and seriously tan skin. Turned out, he was from Florida. Okra or Ocala or something. Florida was entirely too senior citizen for the Real World. Hard to club it up when you’re dodging wheel chairs. KC Hewitt was his name. Real swell guy. An alliance was easy to form, what with him all geriatric-mannered and laid-back surfer-esque. At night, he did his chemistry problem sets while I analyzed chemistry on The Bachelor. Sure, he had more numbers to work with, but at least he had formulas to follow. Me, I was dealing with raw data, everything from scratch. Trial and error. Rudimentary, rigorous scientific method.

I had a routine down by week two. Stardom-seekers need routines. We’re just like pre-med folks that way, but not so stiff-backed or sleep-deprived, though probably better at chemistry now that I think about it. At least the kind of chemistry that counts. I went through the college rigmarole: the classes, dining hall waffles, even the occasional frat party with KC. “Think of it this way, Jason,” he said one night early September, tossing me a clean, folded Polo shirt and his bottle of Hollister cologne, “we can both practice for The Bachelor by starting with a pool of a hundred girls. Each party, we whittle it down to one. We play a whole season in one night. Reality in fast forward.” I couldn’t say no to that. It’d be like a pre-med type finding a corpse in his closet or under his bed and not making a few cuts before calling the cops. You want to be good at something, you don’t pass up an opportunity to bone up on your skills, I don’t care how talented or destined you are.

The first party we went to was more like Survivor than The Bachelor. Hell, I was just trying to keep my head above the smoky, fermented waters and stay focused on the game. I saw KC hitting it off real well with a girl on a plaid couch. Quality one-on-one time already. I had staked out about fifteen girls and had nabbed some alone time with three of them. What can I say? I had the curly dark hair, blue eyes, and lanky body thing going for me. One of the girls was a cheerleader from Minnesota, another a theater major from Fairfax, and the third a cowgirl from Texas. Quite the assortment, let me tell you, and all pretty decent looking, though you know how first impressions go. If I’ve learned anything from Chris Harrison and the boys on The Bachelor, it’s that most girls are pretty – at least the ones picked for the show and from the looks of things, the ones offered admissions to JMU – so you gotta get to know them if you really want to see their curves.

Anyways, KC was romancing it up with his couch girl, skipping about seven stages and getting right to the final rose ceremony. I was making my rounds trying to narrow the field from ten to seven when red and blue lights started flashing and a scene straight out of COPS began. Now COPS is reality – old-school style – but not one of the shows I want to star in. Half the people on the show are missing teeth or reveal way too much white cotton underwear, and the other half are the officers with their wooden rods (I think tazers would have made it too easy; the sticks added to the drama.) and Top Gun sunglasses. Hey, those boys figure they got to do it up right. It’s their chance for fame and god damn they were going to get it. What better way to become immortalized than by playing Officer Alpha Cop. The Po-Po with the Mo-Mo.

We stopped the party scene right after midterms. KC and his sofa sweetheart were going strong. Me, it took that long to hand my final rose to a girl from Detroit, now living in Virginia Beach: Jane Smitherman. God, could she kiss. I mean I didn’t want to come up for air. Whenever I saw her, that’s all I wanted to do: make-out. But relationships aren’t just about physically connecting. We needed to date. One morning over a plate of waffles, I passed Jane a napkin on which I had written:

Jane,
I want to see your wild side.
Jason

“Wild side?” She eyed me hard, but I could tell she was as flattered as she was intrigued. That’s the look girls always get when they get the attention they think they don’t deserve but crave all the same.

“I was thinking we could head out to Skyline Drive and do a little hiking up in Shenandoah National Park over the weekend. What do you think?”

“Oh. That sort of wild. I’m a beach girl, you know.”

“But you’re adventurous. You’ll love it.”

“What about bears?”

“They’re hibernating,” I bluffed.

Well, the date didn’t go as well as I had anticipated. I mean, I thought I had gotten everything right, even down to the packed lunch with cheese and crackers and a bottle of wine. I did forget the glasses though, so we had to shoot the wine straight out of the bottle. And I swear on my grandmother’s King James Bible that weighs nearly ten pounds: we saw a bear on the trail. Big and black and lumpy, and scary as hell. This is what I’m talking about reality: it gets you. Bears on TV, they could be stuffed animals or pets or maitre d’s at some vegetarian restaurant. But this bear was less than a football field away, just staring us down. God, why hadn’t they put a bear on Survivor? When a bear looks at you, you can’t help but just about pee your pants, and if Jane wasn’t right next to me, holding my hand something fierce, I know I would have. Anyways, the bear just stared and then stalked off. We didn’t have to run or charge or play dead or anything. That was that, and Jane was done. We hadn’t even reached our first waterfall. I sure thought Detroit girls were supposed to be tough. I mean, they built Ford tough. But I took her home just the same. You give a girl your final rose, you gotta work to make it work, bears or no bears. That means calling it quits sometimes, too.

She came by my room the next day to call it quits for good. I didn’t know what to say while she went through line after line I had heard bachelors using on their women for seasons now: “I just didn’t feel as strong a connection with you. . . . I don’t think we have enough in common. . . . I’ve really enjoyed our time together, but I just don’t see a future for us. . . . You’ll meet some lucky girl someday who will be perfect for you. She’s just not me.” On and on. Mostly, I just sat there taking it all in. I had watched enough girls pull away from the bachelor’s mansion in limos all mascara-stained and sniffling to know you didn’t cry at this moment. And, you didn’t get angry either, because then you seemed like an egotistical bitch, or dick, in my case. When she left, I walked to the lounge to find some good reality to numb the pain of losing her. She was my first girlfriend, you know.

By the time finals and the holidays came around, I was done practicing for The Bachelor. The seasonal special of Top Chef aired the Wednesday before I left for home, and I knew where and how I would be spending my holidays: in the kitchen, slicing and dicing and frying and crème bruleeing. Mom was relieved when I offered to cook Christmas dinner all by myself. “You’re really growing up now that you’re in college, Jason,” she told me when she picked me up from the airport. Even though the drive wasn’t that bad, my parents had insisted I fly home. I suspected they had both lost rock-paper-scissors to see who was going to drive down to get me, so the next best option was book a flight. I didn’t mind. I figured I better get used to this mode of transportation. Reality Show Stardom would mean an elevated lifestyle: goodbye asphalt, hello highway in the sky. “What do you have in mind for dinner?” mom asked.

“I was thinking I would hit up Whole Foods and see what kind of fresh veggies and meats they have before I come up with my menu.” No chef went into a challenge saying, I’m going to make a saffron leek scallop soufflé. What if the leeks were wilted or the scallops too small? See, I was learning. Shop first for inspiration, cut up a few peppers and crack a few eggs, then create your menu.

Mom turned to look at me, “Alright, Emeril.” Bam! That’s right.

We ordered take-out at 5:45 on Christmas Day and picked it up at 6:00, right as Chan’s China Palace was closing. The egg rolls were hard and cold; the lo mein soggy; and, the General Tso’s chicken bland and dry. You didn’t need a refined palate to know the food was inedible. (I say inedible with the authority of a college boy, who will always eat any available food, except what I made for Christmas dinner. Even a Survivor finalist wouldn’t have touched that meal with an immunity totem.) Mom tried hard not to cry, but really, what was she supposed to do? You chip a tooth on an egg roll on Christmas after your only son ruins two – not one, but two – of your All-Clad sauté pans and overheats your Kitchen Aid Mixer, sets fire to a couple William Sonoma hand towels he was using as pot holders, and turns the kitchen into a project for Extreme Home Makeover: go ahead, cry a little. I never wanted to believe in Santa Claus more than when I saw that first tear start its slippery path down her cheek. God, I wanted there to be some fat guy in a red suit somewhere making wishes come true and happy holidays and ho, ho, ho, because I sure as hell wasn’t making her happy on Christmas. Truth was, I almost cried, too. But and now here’s the bigger truth: I was just about crying because I knew Top Chef was no longer an option for me. Fine, I realized it wasn’t ever an option. Everything I touched in the kitchen went up in flames or ended up smelling like burnt garlic, even the chocolate-infused bread pudding with a caramel-infused whipped topping. The whole meal was a mess-infused disaster. Chef Tom Colicchio would have skewered me at Judges’ Table, let me tell you.

The following weekend, I wrote my New Year’s Resolutions. I had never bought into the whole resolution thing before. Struck me as a bit unnecessary since I already had a master plan for life that included stardom. Besides, the whole practice seemed entirely too artificial. Why write about the changes you want to make to your body or attitude or closet? Just go buy that shoe rack and get on with it. But this year, I needed something. I had been beyond depressed since Christmas. Hey, I figured it couldn’t hurt to refocus. Here’s what I came up with:
Research the latest reality TV shows on the market.
Pick three to apply to.
Have applications and video auditions post-marked by February 14th. (Hey, I had passion for reality shows, what can I say? Valentine’s Day seemed appropriate, especially with Jane long gone.)
Travel/attend two live auditions by the end of the semester.
Call home more frequently (during commercials breaks).

When I got back to school, I had work to do. Well, at least I thought I had work to do. I guess when you’re destined for stardom, you really don’t need to bother with resolutions. And, you didn’t need to work at anything. They will call you.

Who is they? In my case, it was some reality show exec: a fast-talking, Converse-wearing man who knocked on my dorm door one night about half-way through an episode of The Amazing Race. I had just picked out my fantasy teammate: Tiger Woods. Hey, he’s got a mean fist pump and sure looks sharp in red. Besides, he knows how to get out of the rough. At least that’s what my dad was always saying on the weekends he wasn’t at the office and instead was kicked back on the family room couch, woohooing at the TV like it was actually listening to him. I guess from an early age the distinction between television and reality had been blurred for me. I was probably five or six, and I can still remember my dad yelling at one of those gingham-pants-wearing pros with matching visors to “Put it in the hole, Champ. Knock this one down. I’m counting on you. Yes, you.” Dad would point and always, always strive for eye contact. The golfer rarely cooperated, and thus the relationship between viewer and doer, fan and star, skewed. Like I said, I was five or six then and the real loner type. Probably something in my father’s fascination with the players of whatever game was on, be it golf or baseball or football and sometimes bowling, seemed downright intriguing to me. When you’re five or six and you don’t have a lot of friends, it seems like a pretty good idea to be on TV somehow. Behind the screen, you could one-up having friends and better yet have complete strangers talk to you, cheer you on, put down a beer in your name, and drown out the rest of the world – even a five or six year old son who just wants to play a little catch in the backyard. Hey, who wouldn’t want to command that kind of attention?

But I digress. So this guy showed up knocking a jingle on my door and I answered it. His orange Converses knocked me out. “Jim Bundt’s the name, and let me tell you I’ve been looking for you, kid.” I thought he was a salesman until I saw his Rolex.

“So tag, I’m it? Is that the idea?” I was nervous with him there in his orange hi-tops and ten-pound watch. When I get nervous, I get witty. If I were ever held up at gunpoint, I would gladly offer to put duct tape over my own mouth.

“No, no, no. We’re on the same team.” He wasn’t exactly Tiger Woods, if you know what I mean. I just stared. “I hear you know your reality. I’m the guy who’s going to make you a star.” I was having trouble hearing. It sounded like he was going to make me a star of reality.

“Come on in.” Take note: when you’re destined for stardom and destiny does search you out – citrus shoes and all – invite him in. Walking into my dorm room, I asked, “What’s the show?”

“Ah, curious? Curious is good. It’s good for you on the show, but unfortunately, there’s some information I can’t disclose at this time. As I’m sure you know, reality has its own timeline. For now, trust me. The show is perfect for you, and you’re perfect for the show.”

“But how do you know it’s such a good fit?”

“Loyal viewers make the best contestants. From what Jane has told me, you’re as loyal as they come. And better contestants make logistics work better. Routines stay tighter. Secrets stay secret. That sort of thing.”

“Jane spread the word about me, huh? Good ole Jane. Are you her – “

“My turn to ask a question. Are you in?”

Final note on stardom: say yes and don’t worry about passing go and collecting your two hundred dollars. Final roses, victory dances, endless immunity, finales, interviews, agent hirings, magazine covers: here I come.

“Yes, I’m in.” Next stop, hotels on Broadway, baby, and to me, that meant my name on websites and tabloids and scheduled appearances on the Today Show and Good Morning, America, and shaking Regis’ hand and giving Kelly a kiss on the cheek, and maybe sitting next to Dave Letterman after he announces the Top Ten Reasons to Apply to a Reality Show or Write a New Year’s Resolution. Hey, when you’re nineteen and a reality show junkie, that’s the high life.

I left KC a note and phoned my parents from the limo on the way to the airport. I told them as much as I knew, which wasn’t much, except that this was my big shot. Mom told me she was proud, and Dad told me not to be the first one eliminated. I would email my professors and the dean while we waited for our flight. I would send Jane a thank you note, after the season. Maybe get her a car or something, too. Hey, I owed her big time. Jim said the taping would last for the rest of the semester. I got giddy when he said the word taping. So I’d be a semester behind. That’s it. No big deal. This was it.

Here’s what happened next: paperwork. I signed my name so many times I forgot what the black squiggles stood for. Jim said I could just listen to his explanation of the forms so we could get through them faster. He had a law degree; I was a college student who didn’t read unless it was posted online (and even then, it was no sure thing). Seemed like a pretty good plan to me.

Here’s what he told me: the first form was a disclosure of some sort, the second dealt with filming and photography rights, the third dealt with privacy and listed the allowable forms of communication with family and friends during the taping (the list was short: none), and after that, I sort of tuned out and just focused on the key words: show, producer, contestants, island, airfare, accommodations, host, winner, prizes. Everything sounded exactly like I had imagined it, except I was still curious about the show’s title and premise. Jim said my questions had to be left unanswered until we reached the island. Understandable. How would it be if some eavesdropper picked up a tidbit and spilled the beans to US Weekly or People for a hefty sum? Why take that risk?

So we took to the air. First, we had to fly from Charlottesville to Miami. From Miami, we’d fly to the island. Once we were buckled in, Jim gave me a weird look. Then he started muttering something about not being paid enough for this, and I was a little offended to tell you the truth. Yeah, I guess he was taking a chance on me on account of what Jane said because it wasn’t like I auditioned or anything. But listen, I’m an easy going, straight-shooting kind of guy. I only came close to squealing twice, which, given my history and the extent of my dedication to the world of reality television, wasn’t too bad. I just didn’t get what he had to complain about. Seriously, things aren’t that bad if you’re on your way to an exotic island even if you’re working. Besides, he took a great gamble on me. I had destiny on my side.

Maybe he was just bummed about riding coach. I mean, the man wears Rolex.

We didn’t have time to hit the food court in Miami before catching our connection, and I bet Jim’s hunger wasn’t helping his moodiness. That and the second plane was smaller and louder. A dorm room with wings. Soon we were flying over island-spotted blue. I was halfway through reliving the past few hours and planning what I would say to Jane on campus next year when the plane started to go down.

And we’re not talking descent.

You want to see something scary? Glance around at a flight full of people wearing those yellow airbag masks, their bodies tilted forward, fifteen degrees below horizontal; overhead bins spilling their contents; suitcases crashing open, oozing sun tan lotion, flip flops, and thong bikinis; the beverage cart rolling down the aisle, flinging complimentary cans of soda and ice chips at sweating passengers; Jim puking on his orange Converses, his face turning platinum like his watch; and, outside, water blue replacing sky blue in a hurry. Between the drone of the plane and the captain’s warbling over the intercom and the incessant screams, I could barely form a thought. And when I did, here’s what came to mind: the bear. That stupid bear Jane and I saw on our date. God, it seemed so silly now.

When the plane touched down against the surf, the aircraft shivered: a wailing, heavy shiver that ripped open the fuselage and lifted seats right out of their bolts. Mine was one of them.

I woke up with only one leg and blood pooling syrupy and dark under the remains of my thigh. Sometime between the roof of the plane erupting into sky and now, I had been ejected from the flight and lost a major limb. But I was still buckled and still alive, on my back, on the edge of a scrubby and otherwise deserted beach.

That’s when I realized what had happened. Plane crash aside. What had really happened. What was really happening. In retrospect, once I had figured everything out, I realized Jim hadn’t been complaining about me and he wasn’t muttering because he hadn’t eaten since seven in the morning and he didn’t even care about riding first class, stomach rumbling and cracking knees aside. What he was upset about was the imminent change in altitude. What he knew was going to happen. I had lost enough blood in the crash to feel a bit lightheaded, but I was on to something. I was thinking clearly. See, I knew enough to unbuckle my seatbelt and use it as a tourniquet for what was left of my leg. Somehow, closeness to death had strengthened my mental acuity. I mean, come on. This had to be part of the show. Coincidence? I didn’t think so.

I looked down at my leg and the mess it had made. I hadn’t really seen gobs and gobs of blood before or strings of what must have been muscle or tendon or skin. The red was far more mesmerizing than a whole silver plateful of roses at a bachelor’s fingertips. Let’s face it, up until now, no reality show had ever shown real, hardcore suffering. Man vs. Wild sounded dangerous, but it wasn’t. Or it was, but only in the eating ants for dinner and avoiding lions kind of way. Personally, the show bored me. Anorexic girls on Top Model occasionally passed out from not eating for ten days straight, and sometimes a Real World roommate needed his stomach pumped. Sure, the producers dramatized those trips to the hospital in tear-filled ambulances, but life was never in danger of being lost.

Or already lost.

Until now.

God, there was a lot of blood. The reality of it seemed so unreal. Almost cartoonish or ketchupy.

I had to hand it to them – this show’s creators were really on to something: staging a plane crash was a hell of a premise for a new reality series. They had real balls to do something so big, so major, so real. Seriously, they got carnage right. I mean even around me, you had bits of charred metal from the plane still smoking, something near the water’s edge that sure looked like a hand, and a couple of smoldering seat cushions. The air smelled burnt, just like our kitchen Christmas Day, only here the smell hung thick and stale in the air. A gray haze hovered over a stretch of beach to my left, fed by swirling black chimneys of smoke funneling out of what looked like the tail of the plane. Nothing moved anywhere except the smoke. No trees swayed, no grass waved. If I had to guess, the ocean had probably stopped its ebbing and flowing. The stillness bothered me. Where were the other contestants? Where were the camera crews? Filming with hidden cameras is common, but this level of innovation in shooting a reality show unnerved me. Hey, the whole scenario unnerved me. Who wants to see a disembodied hand on a patch of sand an arm’s reach away? I knew to be ready for challenges and competition and alliances and twists and turns and drama and ceremonies whether the show was about cooking or losing weight. Tragedy was new for me – an aspect of reality I hadn’t studied. So much for patterns. So much for rules. At least I was hanging in there so far. And, I barely felt any pain, just an achy tingle so far. I was down a limb, but these days they’re so good with fake ones, it wouldn’t matter. With jeans on, no one would know. Besides, the station would have to pay for everything, and they could film all the doctor’s appointments, too. More air time would mean more money. A leg was a small price to pay for stardom. For Reality Show Stardom. Game on.

The blood flow was slowing down. The tingling was growing stronger. The ground beneath my leg had turned into Merlot mud. I took off my shirt, hoping my abs looked better on TV than in real life, and wrapped it around the wound. Then, I inventoried myself, running my hands over my face, my head, my chest and stomach, and what was left of my extremities. Far as I could tell, I had no other major concerns, just cuts and scrapes and black and blues almost everywhere. We (and by ‘we’ I mean those of us who had signed the papers and managed to survive the crash, though I didn’t know if the plural was exactly accurate; for all I knew staring at the charcoal-infused blue sky, I could have been the only one left.) had to be one damn good looking cast right now. No need for a make-up crew here. I wondered if the show would have a content advisory. You know, something urging parents not to let their eight-year-old sit down to watch it because of the excessive losses of blood, limbs, and life. That sort of thing. I wished I could have warned my parents. As much as I wanted them to see me famous, I didn’t want them to see me like this. Ruining sauté pans was bad; life-threatening injuries were worse. Hell, they might even sue the show.

Something was happening. Couldn’t help it, really. A fear was building up in me. I felt it. The tingling intensified, swelling into my head in a dizzying frenzy. Thinking about my parents had triggered it. Along with the fear, I felt an urgent desire for others. Where was Jim? The pilot? The plane? I could see the tail, but where was the rest of it? Was Jane on her way to class or eating an omelet at the dining hall? I had to find the plane. Still lying in my seat, I could only see that damn hand and some scattered plane parts and bits and pieces of suitcases, clothing, and toiletries. A pink toothbrush was sticking straight up in the sand. Was KC studying chemistry now or was he out on a date with couch girl? I squirmed into a sitting position, leaning against my seat back. The tingling grew stronger. The open wound ached and bled still. I pulled the belt tighter. Roses grew and shed leaves in my knee. I tried to remember what I had been doing, what I had been thinking. The plane. Smoke. The others. A hand. The show. Burnt metal. Reality. Pink toothbrush. Blood. Stardom. Crash. Destiny. Glimpses of thoughts bounced in my head, then bounced out. More tingling now. A hole. And I was falling. It was too soon to go home. Was it time for an elimination ceremony already? I couldn’t pack up my knives just yet. I wasn’t a star. I hadn’t reached my destiny. Mom and dad. I hoped they were proud of me. Hey, maybe it wasn’t so noble, but I had a vision, a plan, and I was making it work. Yeah, that’s saying something.

Where did the rest of the plane go? And where are the camera crews? The other contestants? Why isn’t the wind blowing? Wish I could wash some of this blood off. Hell, nobody wants to see a beaten corpse win. Too damn morbid. But a few battle scars never hurt any Hercules.

***

Lindsey Harding

Lindsey Harding is an MFA student in Sewanee University’s School of Letters. Last spring, her story “Morning Routine” was published in the online literary magazine Wanderings. Lindsey lives in Gainesville, Florida, with her husband and daughter.