Then the engine just stopped.

The cockpit didn’t go silent, but the noise changed. There had always been a background hum before, and now all I could hear was the wind. The nose pointed down automatically. I eased back on the yoke out of habit, practically without thinking, and watched the airspeed bleed off as I tried to hold altitude. The propeller spun in the wind.

I felt like a robot as I went through the engine-out checklist in my mind, which suddenly seemed foreign, as if I had never done it before. I checked the electric breakers, the fuel level, the ignition switch, and simultaneously steered in the direction of the nearest airport—it seemed tiny and far away, like an island in an angry sea. I circled around to line up with it. I clicked the microphone button and sent out a single message that I was landing with no engine, but there was no response. I could see the airport now, and I was lined up—but it was sinking lower than it should. I unthinkingly advanced the throttle to slow my descent, but of course there was no power.

I looked down. Below me was a country road and a vineyard. To the right was a rocky riverbed, to the left a four-lane highway dotted with cars. I knew there were powerlines over both the country road and the highway. By Hobson’s choice, I lined up with the vineyard, which was rapidly becoming my only option.

Suddenly a powerline appears, right in the path. Who would string a powerline over a vineyard? I listen for the stall warning horn but there was none, so I ease back just slightly on the yoke, raising the nose. I see the wires go by twenty feet below. Now to line up with the rows. Damn, should the wheels be up or down? I don’t remember! They are down now, and no time to change them. The ground is coming up fast. I don’t see any person or truck below, and it wouldn’t matter now. I am committed. I hold the yoke as if I were going to break it off. Forty feet to lose, now thirty. I am lined up, the wings are level. I have to keep them level. That is the only control I have left. Twenty feet, ten.

It never goes through my mind that this could be my last moment on earth. That comes later.

Suddenly the windscreen fills with green, and I am thrown hard against my shoulder belt. It feels like it is stretching. It seems to last forever. I can not lift my head against it. Items from the back of the plane fly over my bowed head and into the windscreen.

Then, it is over, and silent. I sit, unconsciously quiet, for a few heartbeats, unable to move or see or speak. Then, just as suddenly, I can move and see things. The plane is nose-down, but still upright. There is a vague smell of gasoline. It occurs to me that I forgot to crack the door open before landing, so I might be trapped. I try the door, and force it open against the bent wing below. Some training comes back to me and I turn off the ignition key, and the gasoline, and the electricity. I unlock my seat belt and step onto the wing.

I was also left on that note of “Why not?!” with the last line—I sure as heck would be!

There was a final sentence in which he clarified, “That came later.” But it was lost in cutting it down.

I think when the plane starts going down, the very first thought anyone has is, “is this ‘it’? Is this the time we crash and burn?” It the first thing they think about the first time they ever fly, that planes crash and people die.

I’m not saying that there’s anything wrong with the sentence, it creates great suspense. It does disconnect me from the character just slightly.

I’d love to see the full 500 word version in the comments!

I’d use it elsewhere in a story, where the immediacy isn’t so crucial.

Thanks for the link—I love “Morton’s Fork.” You’ve got to wonder, “Who’s Morton? And what was up with his fork?”

Do you really think people won’t understand Hobson’s choice? That’s a shame. For what it’s worth, the wikipedia article on it has some other interesting “choices” that could be easily turned into plot devices. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hobson%27s_choice

Thanks again