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It was dead at the gate. But she liked to pretend there was life.

She looked out through the glass walls. A view across the tarmac.

Before the quiet time, she’d have seen a scene of hustle bustle. Before.

Miniature trucks shuttling luggage. Flashing lights. Rushing cars. Everyone in a hurry, hurry! People in ear defenders waving at aircraft.

She closed her eyes to better see the vibrant activity. To better hear the noise associated with the hordes arriving and departing. Visitors to her world.

Open eyes.

Gazing out at the dark world, the unlit strip, she landed an imaginary Learjet. She populated it with beautiful plastic celebrities – lips and boobs and buttocks. A small plastic dog; shaking nervously in a pink tutu.

The images dissolved, as though a circuit had broken. It was harder now to manifest stories. Memories so old. Decayed by time.

Desolation. Silence.

What she wouldn’t give to see a plastic person. She’d rush to welcome them. To love them.


If only they hadn’t taken the birds. If only they’d left something alive. If only.

She’d be gone too.

Had she been a real girl.


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