UFO Escorted Flight Into Toronto
Captain Bob Miller and First Officer Sarah Jenkins had practiced for wind shear, engine failures, and unruly passengers who had one too many mini-bottles of ginger ale. Nothing in the Air Canada flight manual, however, covered a glowing emerald hubcap matching their descent speed over Lake Ontario.
It started just past Hamilton. Bob reached for the intercom to deliver his standard, mildly bored speech about weather conditions at Pearson, when a low, rhythmic hum resonated through the cockpit glass.
“Sarah, did dispatch mention a scheduled flyby with a giant metallic ravioli?” Bob asked, his knuckles turning white on the yoke.
Sarah peered upward through the windshield, her eyes widening to the size of radar dishes. Floating a mere fifty feet above their fuselage was a polished chrome flying saucer, pulsating with an eerie green tractor beam that illuminated the Toronto skyline like a giant sci-fi laser tag arena.
“Tower, this is AC-416,” Sarah choked out over the radio, her voice jumping two octaves. “We appear to have traffic at twelve o’clock high. And by traffic, I mean an extraterrestrial escort.”
“Copy that, AC-416,” the air traffic controller drawled back without missing a beat. “Maintain your heading for runway two-three. UFO is currently number two for the sequence behind a Jazz flight from Montreal. Tell them to turn their high beams down, they’re blinding the ground crew.”
Back in the cabin, chaos erupted. Row 14 was taking blurry horizontal videos destined for tabloid front pages, while a passenger in business class furiously demanded to know if alien interference meant a meal voucher or double Aeroplan miles.
The saucer gracefully tucked itself directly over the jet’s roof, perfectly mirroring Bob’s bank as they swept past the glowing spire of the CN Tower. The aliens weren’t attacking—they were simply making sure the Airbus hit the glide slope without spilling anyone’s coffee.
Once the wheels touched down smoothly on the tarmac, the saucer flashed its neon undercarriage lights twice, executed an impossible ninety-degree vertical snap, and shot straight into orbit. Bob exhaled, slumped into his seat, and clicked the cabin mic.
“Folks, welcome to Toronto. The local temperature is twelve degrees, and please remain seated until the seatbelt sign is turned off—especially if you’re from the Andromeda Galaxy.”