By Sandy Wilson
The launch weather conditions are ideal. A cloudless sky, dark as velvet, alive with stars, is bisected by a chalk line, the dissipating vapor trail of a passing jet.
The countdown ends and I feel the rocket shake; then, fighting to escape the syrupy grip of gravity, the rocket propels me skyward.
Suddenly there is silence, a second of serenity. Then, with a sudden detonation, the rocket explodes, disintegrates, scattering my mortal remains in the pyrotechnics.
As my ashes drift in the wind I look down, watch as my grieving relatives and friends, in the mournful moonlight, wave farewell.