August 22, 1952, 3:22 PM

Greenwich Mean Time

*This is not my original idea as a story—technically this is an assignment for a class for the book, "Lord of the Flies." —Prue

Alphonse sat in his seat toward the back of the plane. He shifted his pudgy legs nervously. Not for the first time, he wished that his auntie was there. To get his mind off the idea, he looked up and around him at the interior of the plane. Navy blue carpet covered the walkways through which the occasional flight attendant walked on, keeping tabs on each of their customers. A man dressed in a dress vest and tie walked past him just then, and Alphonse glanced back to him curiously, then turned forward and stared at the back of the seat in front of him, studying it. He began to draw small circles in the back of the seat, pondering.

His father was still fighting in the air battles, he knew. In large war balloons that Alphonse still didn't know how they lifted off the ground. Almost as big as a mountain, they scared him more than anything.

Alphonse's father kissed his brow and said, "I love you son," before he turned and left him to his auntie, who wasn't all that bad. Still, Alphonse remembered his retreating back and the promise that Alphonse would enter on this very plane to go to an old country home in America to take refuge. Alphonse felt his glasses mist up, and something hot and wet roll from his eyes. He drew them off and wiped at his eyes with a pudgy hand.

He frowned, wiping away the silent tears. A soft residue of something salty touched his tongue. He felt his throat thicken, and he coughed to clear his throat.

"Are you alright, young man?" A young lady knelt beside him, red haired and pretty; and looking at him, concerned. She frowned, and Alphonse knew why. It wasn't just him being sent across the Atlantic to America for safety reasons. The entire plane was full of boys whose parents were rich enough to send them away. It didn't make the situation any less worse for Alphonse. She extended a bottle of orange juice to him, the orangey sweet solution swirling around in the bottle. Alphonse did feel thirsty, and the prospect of drinking it gave him small comfort. He gave the flight attendant his eye contact, and found that they were a brilliant blue, and the folds underneath her eyes wrinkled. The flight attendant spoke again. "The war is hard on all of us, sweetheart. I'm sorry this has happened to you."

Alphonse sniffed again. "I'm sorry, too. But there's nothing to be done."

"Except keep hope that the war will end quickly," the young flight attendant replied, pressing the bottle into his hands. The coldness felt wonderful in his palm, and he rolled it from hand to hand, deciding not to open it just yet. Instead, he just stared at the hands holding it, attached to the pudgy arm with rolls at the wrists.

"What's your name?" Alphonse asked suddenly, feeling self conscious of the pity she held for him. He felt color come to his cheeks.

The young flight attendant, noticing his discomfort, shook her head. "I'm sorry." She pointed to her nametag on the left side of her vest. "My name is Nessie."

"Agnes?"

"Yes, but please just call me Nessie. What is your name?"

"Alphonse," he murmured. He didn't dare tell her what the other students called him at school. No, as far as she was concerned, he was named Alphonse. Definitely not Piggy.

"Well, Alphonse," Nessie said with a certain finality in her tone, but not negatively. "Enjoy your ride." She squeezed his shoulder gently, and stood, straightening the red-orange tie around her small neck and walked away, her high heels making small thuds in the carpet. Alphonse thought he saw her own eyes mist up slightly, and her voice crack at the last words. Maybe her Daddy was in the war, too.

Alphonse stared at the orange juice bottle in his hands. It felt deliciously cold in his fingers, and he carefully unscrewed the top and took a sip. It rolled down his throat, slightly thicker than water, but not by much, the sweet taste bursting in his mouth. He smacked his lips softly, closing his eyes and screwed the top back on again. He would save the rest for later, he thought.

Bored, Alphonse carefully began to pick at the label, thinking. He wanted to believe Nessie about having hope that the war would someday end, but his doubts kept stacking up on each other. If he didn't check himself, horrible images of his father dying ran through his mind—shot through the head, the skull split open, his father's face unrecognizable.

Like just then. Alphonse squeezed his eyes shut and hoped that the plane ride wouldn't be long, imagining the country roads he would see, and America. Green fields, he imagined. Daisies, maybe; a new school where no one would ever call him Piggy again. A new start perhaps, but hopefully not forever. America, where the war didn't exist at all.

Though, he knew that was folly. Yes, the war existed. Yes, bad men were real. Not that he wanted any part of that—the rebellions against the government over the use of the atom bomb. It was used, anyway. Which probably killed and destroyed so many military bases and homes. Families. The molecular destructive device.

At least it was less painful than being shot, he thought. Didn't make death any less horrible. He worried for his auntie, his mummy, and most importantly, for his Dad. He squeezed his eyes shut again. No, no, no. Worry will do no good, Alphonse, you miserable prat. He took several deep breaths and felt a wheeze come into his chest—his asthma. Another reason for him to be sent to America, his auntie had first advised. More clean air. Though, she didn't like the idea of Alphonse being in an airplane. Alphonse never liked the idea of being in a plane either, but that changed once he saw the look in his father's eyes. Sternly telling him it was the right thing to do.

Was it?

He took another sip of the orange juice from Nessie the pretty flight attendant. Again playing with the label on the juice, tearing at it slightly, eventually trailing circles on the back of the seat in the front of him absentmindedly.

Alphonse felt the seat beside him sink into its cushions. He glanced to his right to find another boy sitting there, looking at him intently with dark blue eyes and dark hair, reminding Alphonse of a messy feathered raven.

"Hullo," the boy said.

"Hullo," Alphonse replied.

"Your Daddy in the war, too?"

Alphonse nearly opened his mouth to protest, but instead decided to nod mutely. The boy nodded, understanding. "M' name's Roger. What's yours?"

"Al—"

Alphonse first heard something horribly like gunfire from a machine gun. He glanced around him wildly to find the source of it. He barely saw a fighter jet outside of his window when a loud sucking vacuum noise filled his ears, and he cried out. The orange juice bottle felt torn from his hand. The entire front half of the plane detached itself from a much louder explosion in his ears, roaring and determined. Alphonse shut his eyes, clutching at his head, holding his glasses to his head as the plane fell through free space, plummeting toward a large stretch of land he could not see.

Trailing after the falling plane was a long, red and orange decorative tie, fluttering in the wind hopelessly.