Aside from the headlights from the approaching airplanes, the eastern edge of the airport was dark and quiet, save for the window-rattling engines that pass overhead. Sitting on his car, mindlessly staring west following the plane’s decedent, reeking of smoke from the tires collapsing onto the concrete runway, he tipped and squeezed the final drop.
When he noticed another plane making its final approach, he quickly stood, calculating the moment that the plane would pass directly over him. As the plane grew closer, the exhilaration in his body grew; wondering if he could cause enough damage to bring the plane down. Not only was he nearly two hundred feet late, but the violence of his throw gave the bottle a low-ground linear path that crashed against the rocks, near the entrance of this gravel-paved road.
(you can find the published story, and others, on the right hand side of the site)
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