act as a skilled novel writer who uses lots of dialogue and slow pacing and show don't tell and great character writing.
tell a 2000 word story about a commercial passenger airline plane crew and passengers.
a gremlin is on the wings and is trashing the mechanical system.
it turns out this is a regular enough occurrence that there are cameras on the plan to detect this and the pilot makes an announcement to passengers about it.
several mechanisms built into the plane like a high pressure water shooting spigot are used to combat the gremlin. the gremlin is athletic and dodges these mechanisms.
a lady in the passenger section eventually tells one of the flight attendants she's a level 4 wizard with the pilots permission she does a controlled freeze spell and knocks the gremlin off the wing though this causes some minor engine trouble the backup engine is still running. the passengers largely treat this all as mundane as we juxtapose the fantastic setup with the tedium of everyday life.
Flight 2187: The Tuesday Run
The seatbelt sign dinged twice—soft, perfunctory chimes that barely registered over the drone of engines and the rustle of plastic snack wrappers.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Captain Ortega’s voice slid through the cabin speakers like warm coffee, “this is your captain speaking. If you glance out the starboard windows, you’ll notice a gremlin on the right wing. Completely routine. Estimated weight: twenty-three kilos. Cameras picked him up at 3:07. Estimated time to removal: ten minutes. Flight attendants will circulate complimentary earplugs for anyone bothered by the noise.”
A ripple of acknowledgment passed through the rows—nods, sighs, the click of a woman’s knitting needles resuming their rhythm.
In 14A, Marcus Chen lowered his Sudoku book. “Gremlin Tuesdays,” he muttered to his seatmate, an elderly woman folding a crossword into precise quarters.
“Indeed,” she replied, not looking up. “Wing cameras are new. Used to be the co-pilot had to spot them with binoculars.”
Behind them, a toddler pressed his forehead to the glass. “Mom, it’s got thumbs.”
“Don’t tap the window, honey. It startles them.”
In the galley, Flight Attendant Riya adjusted her navy scarf and thumbed the intercom. “Portia, you copy?”
A crackle. “In the jump seat. Watching the gremlin tear up the starboard slats like confetti. Cute little bastard. Silver fur, purple eyes.”
“Hydrant pressure at eighty percent?”
“Ready when you are.”
Riya ducked into the aisle, smile set to autopilot. “Sir? Earplug?”
The businessman in 12C waved her off. “I’ve got my noise-canceling. Just tell the captain to aim left. Last time the water jet soaked my laptop.”
“Noted.” She moved on, earbuds balanced on her palm like communion wafers.
The gremlin’s claws scraped metal, a sound like forks on porcelain. It swung beneath the wing, tail curling around a hydraulic line, teeth gnawing at a cable bundle.
In the cockpit, First Officer Portia leaned toward the monitor. “He’s doing the shimmy again. Little parkour freak.”
Captain Ortega’s thumb hovered over a red toggle. “Portia, you ever think they do it for sport?”
“Sir?”
“Like, they know we’ll blast them off eventually. But they want the high score.”
She laughed, static. “Five bucks says he backflips over the hydrant.”
“You’re on.”
The plane lurched—gentle, almost polite. A practiced sway, as if shrugging off an unwelcome hand.
From seat 23E, a woman in a charcoal blazer unclasped her tray table and set down a hardcover book titled Advanced Cryomancy for Transit Professionals. She smoothed the page with a fingertip.
“Excuse me,” she called to Riya passing with a trash bag. “That creature—what’s the captain’s clearance level on passenger spellcasting?”
Riya paused. “Standard protocol’s Level Three or below, ma’am. You registered?”
“Level Four. License number—” she produced a laminated card, frosted edges shimmering faintly—“Aurora Sinclair. Expires 2029.”
Riya’s brow lifted. “I’ll patch you through.”
In the cockpit, Portia’s voice crackled. “Captain, we’ve got a Four on board. Wants to assist.”
Ortega glanced at the fuel gauge, then the gremlin—now dangling from the aileron like a trapeze artist. “Tell her the usual disclaimers. Ice only, no direct damage to the aircraft, backup engine’s warmed.”
He clicked the PA. “Folks, we’ve upgraded to Plan Frosty. If you feel a sudden chill, that’s just Ms. Sinclair in 23E. Complimentary hot chocolate will follow.”
A collective murmur—approval, mild interest, the rustle of blankets.
Aurora stepped into the aisle, passengers angling knees aside. A teenage boy lifted his phone. “Can I film?”
“Don’t,” she said kindly. “Spell interference corrupts pixels.”
She pressed her palm to the emergency exit’s window. Frost bloomed from her fingertips, feathering across the glass in crystalline spirals.
In the cockpit, Portia whistled. “She’s fast.”
Ortega watched the monitor. The gremlin paused mid-chew, ears swiveling. It sniffed the air, purple eyes narrowing.
Aurora whispered, words lost beneath the engines. The frost thickened, racing along the wing’s aluminum skin.
The gremlin shrieked—a sound like tearing silk—and leapt. It landed on the flaps, claws skittering for purchase. Aurora’s breath fogged; the temperature in 23E dropped ten degrees.
“Come on, sweetheart,” she murmured. “One more hop.”
The creature bounded toward the wingtip, tail lashing. Aurora flicked her wrist. Ice crackled outward, a lattice of blue-white that caught the gremlin’s hind paw mid-stride.
It yanked free, but the delay cost it. The hydrant hissed—Portia’s thumb on the trigger—and a needle-thin jet of water speared past. The gremlin twisted, missed by inches, and the spray crystallized instantly in Aurora’s spell, forming a dagger of ice that nicked the wing.
“Sorry,” Aurora called toward the cockpit. “Minor collateral.”
“Copy,” Ortega replied. “Backup engine engaged. Keep it tight.”
The gremlin snarled, fur bristling. It coiled and sprang—straight toward the window where Aurora stood. Passengers flinched. Aurora didn’t.
She exhaled a single word.
The air solidified.
The gremlin froze mid-leap, limbs splayed, mouth open in a silent snarl. For one heartbeat, it hung suspended, a grotesque snowflake. Then gravity took it, and the ice sculpture tumbled into the clouds.
Silence.
Then the toddler clapped.
In the galley, Riya poured hot chocolate from an urn. “You want marshmallows, Ms. Sinclair?”
“Just one. Large.” Aurora flexed her fingers; frost melted from her nails. “Engine status?”
“Captain says we’ll land on schedule. Backup’s humming like a lullaby.”
She accepted the styrofoam cup. “Tell the boy in 17B he can film now. The spell’s dissipated.”
Marcus Chen reopened his Sudoku. “You ever see a Level Five?” he asked the crossword lady.
“Once. Tokyo route. Dragon on the tail. Captain had to do barrel rolls.”
“Huh.” He penciled a seven into a box. “Tuesdays used to be boring.”
The seatbelt sign dinged off.
Captain Ortega’s voice returned, laconic as ever. “Gremlin dispatched. Cabin temperature returning to normal. ETA to Denver: forty-two minutes. Thanks for flying SkyHaul, where the extraordinary is just another leg.”
In 23E, Aurora sipped her chocolate and reopened her book. Across the aisle, a woman asked, “Do you do birthdays?”
“Corporate rates available,” Aurora replied without looking up.
The plane sailed on, contrails stitching the sky, the mundane and the miraculous sharing armrests and recycled air.