Me & Amelia A Very Short Story   I can no longer abide the feigned order of monotony and the fragile contradictions of a civilized society. To hell with everyone, I shout, as I slam the door behind me and mount the bannister for my long, sliding descent into another downstairs morning where I am visibly moved by the continuing promise of an unstable existance. Having thus divorced myself from reality, I now find the alimony payments more of a burden than I had anticipated. I consider taking a second job as a Wish Washer or a Night Dutchman, but the third transformation hangs over my head like the long lost logbook of Amelia Earhart's last flight. * We cross the border in darkness, revolving slowly to avoid being seen. By the first grey light of dawn, we have traveled far into the unfamiliar territory and still we have not seen any aliens, though to be thoroughly correct, they are no longer aliens here; it is their territory and we have become the aliens. We do not feel any different as a result of this subtle transformation, perhaps because it has come about gradually, invisibly during the night. Nonetheless, silence seems appropriate. As the sun clarifies the horizon line, Amelia takes my arm and points to the distant airfield. I nod my head in approval and we continue, removing our clothing, piece by piece as we walk, eagerly anticipating the ethereal pleasures of flight. Where are you now, my Amelia, and how burns the fire?