Sands lives in Boulder, Colorado. He is the author of the novel It Came From Below the Belt (Afterbirth) and editor of the journal Bust Down the Door and Eat All the Chickens. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in the Bizarro Starter Kit (Blue), Lamination Colony, The Dream People, No Colony, Word Riot, Opium, Zygote in My Coffee, Robot Melon, decomP, Mud Luscious, Thieves Jargon, Noo Journal, and others.
Nobody will tell us why our flight has been delayed. We are very disgruntled.
Is there someone else we can speak to? A supervisor?
Oh, you are the supervisor? We feel an urge to murder you, but choose to keep our emotions trapped beneath the skin, since we are civilized people, unlike you and your employees. Anyone who treats customers this way is a barbarian.
Why are you preventing us from holding our loved ones in our arms? We haven't seen them in months.
Yes, we understand all the planes have been delayed. You've made it clear. There's nothing you can do. No, we don't want a magazine and a beverage from the airport gift shop. We demand an explanation.
You're blaming the weather? That's ridiculous. It might be winter, but there's not a snowflake in the sky.
No, we haven't looked out the window lately. We will do that now, after we're done visualizing your head as it flies through the air beside a helicopter propeller.
Where are the windows? All we see are mirrors. There are an awful lot of them in this airport.
That's idiotic. Windows can't just turn themselves into mirrors. They are made of an entirely different substance, we think.
Thanks so much for telling us about molten aluminum and silver, smart guy. But how did either of those things get on the back of the windows? Don't tell us a volcano erupted in the area.
No, we're not going to move out of your way, not until you answer all of our questions. We don't care if a disgruntled customer is trying to smash a "window" with a fire extinguisher. We are almost to that point of disgruntlement, but not yet. Still, we applaud his take-charge attitude and plan to assist him by holding you back.
Success...we are thrilled for him.
Why is there another mirror behind the broken one?
We asked you a question, not for your impersonation of a terrified baboon.
Hey, you might want to look behind you. There's a parade of all your hopes, dreams, disappointments, embarrassments, successes, and temper tantrums. They are all coming toward you, waving knives at your throat.
Look behind you.
Never mind, we took our own advice. There is nothing behind you except a roomful of disgruntled customers.
Wait...your parade is marching inside the mirror. The first float rolls closer and closer.
Now we see it, now we don't. Watch your back.
That's disgusting. Can you go somewhere else? We're all trying to maintain a functional digestive system. We didn't pay good money to see viscera pour out of your body.
Oh, look what you've done now -- you're dead and we feel guilty about wanting to murder you. You will always be remembered in our hearts. You were a very good person.
Saying nice things about you isn't making us feel good about ourselves. We will try another technique. We will pretend a living person still exists inside the black shape that has enveloped your body. You haven't given us any other choice. We so enjoy talking to you. We will talk until our parades come to take us away, leaving behind shadows where there once was light.
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