Originally uploaded by Vocal Shrapnel.
The families inside the airport were slowly coming to grips with the impending fate of their loved ones. Signs made to greet the arrivals sat foot-printed and forgotten on the linoleum. It seemed clear that the anticipated arrival which they were heralding would never come.
Just then, an idea struck -- so simple and yet so elusive. Running onto the airstrip, a hand clutching sticks, the other holding a lighter, was Shleeve.
Grief, everyone assumed.
He'd gone mad with grief. Running onto the tarmac through the mist and the shadows, unable to cope with the imminent disaster.
Then a glimmer.
Then a flame.
They cut the fog. The landing was perfect.
The rabbi sued, but the case was dismissed. "Don't be a dick," the judge said.
Shleeve got a parade.
MUSIC: clinic: the second line