A small, underestimated stowaway,

a void unseen in the skin of the great goliath towering over the trees,

its veins crammed with gasoline, its body a bloated vision of ‘progress,’

the stowaway makes himself known,

suspended for a moment hanging in a void of calm preceding terror—

a sudden rush or air

shooting up all around

on every side

trees swiftly shooting like bullets toward the dream-turned-nightmare of invention,

the stowaway feeds on the air consuming him, eating up the dirigible as it plummets,

its gift of flight snatched away as the ground quickens the pace of a head-on collision,

front page,

no survivors.