Jade Sylvan is a novelist and poet who can most easily be found at www.jadesylvan.com. She is a graduate of Indiana University. She currently lives in Boston,
where she is active in the local literary scene as a fiction writer and poet. Her work has been published in Word Riot, DecomP, Zygote in my Coffee, and The Sun.
She is the poetry editor for the web journal, CRIT, and a regular performer at Cambridge's famous Cantab Lounge. She has had thirteen different jobs in the past
three years, including Tarot Card Reader, Market Researcher, Bouncer, Nude Model, English Tutor, Copy Editor, and Domestic Violence Advocate.
Fear of Flying
At some point I realize if this plane goes down my epitaph will be the video of me dancing to Led Zeppelin in my underwear that I
emailed to twenty-five good-humored friends embedded in a clipart Christmas card yesterday. Anything written since is inside the
computer, impotent and by no means black-box armored on my lap, so for all purposes, that snippet would be the last thing I
ever made. Had I known I would have balanced the colors better, tweaked some of the weaker cuts. All my buddies will blubber
over the silly clip, because doesn't it say so much about who she was? Creative, droll, a music lover, and one who looked more
than passable in skivvies toward the end. Evident she worked out. Cared about herself. I guess this has to be okay, and
probably serves some sort of grand-scheme poignancy that I can't really see clearly right now since it's hard to have much
perspective when you're curled in coach, kowtowing with agnostic prayerlets while the people around who must care to seem
brave or jaded in matters of life and death dismiss these violent rattles with grumbles and grunts as just friendly sky jostling, like
the wind is trying to get the stuffy plane to loosen up. It's okay I think that I didn't call before takeoff and say again I love you or
even worse, I'm scared. I said I love you before in the calm and besides it is generally known, and frightened near-death I Love
Yous are rarely read as genuine and not to be trusted, if war and cancer have taught us anything. Better like this to move on
with quiet hopeful goodbyes and a goofy video. There are worse ways to exit. And as for I'm scared, the weather is worse than I
thought it would be but we're still going to take off, well, no one can really share fear anyway, even if right there, watching the
sleet whip up the sides of the tin albatross, the great manufactured air whale, its fins getting hosed down with some neon
chemist's brew fabled to repel ice like crosses repel fiends in old stories as the storm mouths us wetly, and up I go into the chill
shudders, legacy left, organs strained to the ether, everything vital safe on the ground.
When we were young we would clash with nails and teeth and snot to prove irreconcilable points until you got too tall for it to be
okay to beat up on your big sister who may have earned a venomous flogging but who was in the end a girl, exempt.
When we went to separate colleges, science and liberal arts, we would meet and trade myths of our rampages, drink dark beer
over stringed instruments and draw out all parallels in all lives by Rock compass and Roll conduit in rhyming 4/4 tangos.
When I came to visit you and your wife you let me wear your labcoat and goggles and pretend to turn dials controlling the evilest
lasers laughing manically and big-haired where I wasn't allowed and I read you a poem in which physicists are feral.
When we are old and you have forgotten all language but math and I all numbers but words let us meet and listen to the old
songs and play stiff rhythmic guitar with arthritic hands and let this be the proof of our translation.