For a moment, you wonder if The Thirteen Idiots managed to curse thirteen after all.
Then, you wonder if there are actually thirteen of them.
The flames are still mile-high. The rubble is still all around.
The city never got to grace the face of a map, and now it never would.
Or, perhaps, this would put it on the map for years to come.
The plane painted a mile-long stretch of flames across the city. The damage is so widespread, it must have broken apart in-air.
Even then, it seems impossible.
Flight 13. Crashed one thirteen. Thirteen people on board.
No one seems too fussed over it, really. You’d have thought there’d be swarms of investigators, suspicions of terrorism, and all that.
Then again, you’re there. Perhaps everyone think’s that’s enough.
You don’t care about the crash.
You only came to see the flames.
Such a majestic blaze, reaching into the sky. It twists. It turns. It roars.
It’s almost angry.
And now, you’ve decided. Which is unfortunate, as any decision always makes way into dozens of indecisions.
For instance, how will you move it? You could put some into a bottle and take it with you, but you don’t think it would like being all cooped up.
Perhaps it could just follow you around? But there’s so much paperwork on your desk. It might get singed.
Then again, you hate paperwork.
Because you have decided one thing about the blaze:
You still have no idea how to transport it.
But you know what to name it. What else could you?