I have written a novel called “The Flamer.” I’m looking for a publisher.
Here’s a taste:

ON THE MORNING OF JANUARY 21, 1985, A LOCKHEED L-188A ELECTRA four-engine turboprop took off from Reno. The plane carried six crew members and 65 passengers—among them both George Lamsons, Junior and Senior, 17 and 41. When the plane lifted, stray engine vibrations transmitted uncontrollably to a propeller and then to a wing, causing the plane to flutter in midair. The pilot powered back. Moments later the Electra fell out of the sky. It skidded across a field, then left the ground again, jumping a 20-foot-wide irrigation ditch, before finally sliding to a halt in the parking lot of an RV dealership, where it was engulfed in the flames of burning jet fuel and exploding motor home propane tanks.

Fire crews arriving soon thereafter found George Jr. sitting smack in the middle of Reno’s main drag, South Virginia Street, still strapped to his chair. Conscious. Bearing no more than a few bumps and bruises. Two others had survived, including George Sr. and a high school teacher named Robert Miggins, both of whom suffered horrific burns. The other 68 people aboard died. True story.

A horrible story. And retold here merely as a metaphor—albeit an entirely disproportionate metaphor—for the boyhood of one Oby Brooks. Me. Hurled unscathed from what would otherwise have been a fiery end in Reno, Nevada.

What went through George Jr.’s head as he sat in his chair in the middle of the street with his seatbelt still fastened low and tight? Probably a shock like few of us will ever know. But I bet that when he eventually caught his breath and had a moment to think, he was horrified and grateful and confused all at once.

Maybe he thanked God. In which case, here ends this horrible metaphor. My thanks are owed elsewhere, I think.