12 TWD MAGAZINE
The pilots took that hairpin bank southwest away from Ho Chi Minh, Beijing, toward the nearest field designed to handle its crippled heft: Penang. The air masks dropped and swung before the jolted passengers like plastic nooses, invited them to size their necks.
You, then your children
the attendants reminded over the halting speakers. All could smell the smoke. All would remain, good passengers, seated. There would be no panic. It would be a series of silent deaths, the bodies arranged neat as the contents of a chocolate box. Outside, the moon polished herself on the passing cirrus.
the air conditioning.
the seat-back trays.
Rumination on Disappeared Malaysian Air Flight MH370: In-Flight Emergency Paul David Adkins