So one of the in-flight magazines, I forget which one, had a regular feature called "Tales from seat x" (or some such shit), which would be a short story written by someone else each issue that would take place on a plane, and the entire plot would happen during the flight.  The only one I remember was about a guy who befriends a woman, she eventually makes a pass at him, and then he reveals that he is actually the brother of her fiancé and this was all a trick to test her faithfulness THE END.  

These are the sorts of things you see and you think to yourself "I could write that."  And so I did, and then sent the story to every single in-flight magazine I could think of, since I don't even remember where I saw it.  

I have now given them about 4 months to respond, and since they have not, I believe it is safe to assume that this can now be posted, since they refuse to recognize my genius.  Or they don't enjoy pedophilia jokes.  WHATEVER.
 
TALES FROM SEAT 15A

I took another long sip from my Jack and Jameson, and snuck a surreptitious look at the gentleman who had just sat down on my left.  

"Looks like a terrorist," I mused.  In fact, I was beginning to grow more and more sure of his terrorist nature, so I began to reach up for my chick-call button when I noticed my seat designation placard.  Seat 15A, it read.  "Holy shit," I thought - "this is that seat from those stories in the in-flight magazine!"  I realized I had better make a note of my thoughts, so I could write about it later.  I took out my trusty notepad and noticed that the front page was already filled with observations - Terrorist, I read, written over and over again on the first page, so I flipped through a few more pages...hmm...thirty pages of terrorist written in increasingly less legible handwriting.... need some free space...here was some. 

I took out my pen and gripped it tightly in my sweaty fist, Terrorist, I scrawled in my meaningful, yet nearly unintelligible hieroglyphic-language.

"Hey Abdul," I barked at the man, "what's yer name?", glaring at him through my left eye (the alcohol had long since forced me to close my right, which was fine, since binocular vision is for pussies).  The man, startled, looked over at me.

"Excuse me? I thought I had introduced myself before I left to use the restroom.  My name is Luke - from Sacramento, remember?" The godless heathen put his right hand forward, with all of his fingers pointing at me sideways - some sort of Islamo-bombing gesture of solidarity, no doubt.

"Now you listen to me, Iron Sheik, I don't..." WHAT THE HELL - klaxons of pain were sounding from my knees, which felt as if they had just been tested for reflexivity by Paul Bunyan.

"WHAT THE HELL", I shouted into the back of the seat that was now two inches from my lips.  I leaned back and kicked at it for a few seconds, before wrapping my neck around the right side and beginning my diatribe "Listen you cocksucker," I began..which is when I noticed that there was no one there.  Then I heard a whimpering sound from beneath my chin, and looked down to see a mini-terrorist, complete with Go-GURT®-stained Spongebob Squarepants® t-shirt.

The seat he was in began to shake, along with the whole row, as a large man two seats over was struggling against his seat restraints in apoplectic fury.  "YOU SON OF A BITCH! DON'T YOU DARE TOUCH MY SON!", he screamed, causing me to lower my right fist (Plan B®) to my side.

"I wasn't going to touch your son," I explained in mock-outrage, relaxing back into my own chair.  "I think he's fine...really, really, fine", I half-whispered the last part as I sank back into my chair, causing incoherent screams of rage from the row in front of me, along with a new set of seat-quakes.  

As I began to close my last functioning eye, the gritty remnants of the mystery bathroom pills I had eaten falling down my throat,  I saw the wait-staff scrambling over and I observed three of them restraining a belligerent passenger as he attempted to wreak havoc on the airplane (or more specifically, my face.)

I was rudely shaken awake, and I looked up to see the drink-chick shaking my shoulder.

"Sir! Is what this man says true?", she asked, glancing back to the commotion.  I looked down at my plastic cup and shook the last few ice chips, in what I hoped was the universal gesture for 'another drink, and cut the yapping'.

"Oh, no, I think you've had enough", she frowned sternly.

"OK, just yer phone number then," I drooled suggestively at her, and she stalked off in disgust.  "Whatever", I thought to myself, "anything to get her to stop hitting on me every few minutes."

I was jolted awake an undisclosed amount of time later by the plane coming to a landing, and I respectfully waited until the plan came to a full and complete stop at the terminal before burp-vomiting a little of my stomach contents onto my shirt.  I reached for my bag to get off this awful flying prison and saw that it would be some time before I could depart - all of these idiots were taking their sweet time procuring their carry-on luggage.

"Assholes!", I said out loud in my head, "How inconsiderate can you be?  You know people are trying to get off the plane, yet you hold everyone up while you struggle to dislodge your bag from the overhead containers. A bag, it should be noted, that just as easily could have been checked in."  Some people are just naturally self-centered, I decided.  And then I thought back to my flight, and all I had seen and experienced, and that was when I realized - "OMG", I reflected, and pulled out my notepad and quickly wrote down my epiphany:

Terrorists.