by Bridget Holland

Leanna hunkers in the torn-off tail of the plane, watching the afternoon downpour fill her plastic containers. She peels foil from one of the remaining meals. Larvae move.

So hungry.

“Protein.”

She forces herself to swallow.

Raindrops pound the fuselage. Vines with blood-red flowers twine over the jungle floor, over bumps which were once passengers, over the jagged rim of her sanctuary. She hacks them off every day, then huddles damp with fear-sweat while night rustles in the trees.

Overnight, the vines grow back—closer—their flowers red and hungry mouths.

“Leave me alone!” Leanna whimpers.

Her voice cracks.

“Alone…”

Bridget Holland

Bridget’s a reader, dreamer and writer living in Australia and in her imagination.