Free Fall - New Intro

My children called me Imeh, just like I called my mother before I was shipped off. I was etched with four stroke of adoration, each fragmenting and strengthening me. The first one was forced upon me at the age of fourteen. I had an arranged marriage with a man named Peter who cared for me more than I ever cared for myself. Terrified and mute to the english language, Peter transitioned me from Lebanon to Detroit, Michigan. He built me my yellow ranch house with a chicken coop. I filled my rooms with three others, my children who I loved to fatten with the grease of my labor.

I packed up my life in Lebanon sixty seven years ago, with no resemblance of what my life would be like. Peter educated me, gave me the skills to be run our very own grocery store. I was able to converse with the other immigrated mothers as they picked up slices of bloodied roast. I craved their interaction as they piled onions and carrots into their baskets and it took me years to talk, my accent trapping my tongue. 

My children were fluent in English and their voices were clear with a mid western cadence. Their school uniforms transformed into business suits and dresses. Their children called me Imeh too. 

What I remember most is the sensation of falling. It was my fourth week on the ship and I was walking along the deck when the biggest wave of the trip hit. I remember it rocking the creaking boards beneath me and I was thrown back, sliding and watching the darkening sky swiped my vision. My limbs flailed and I saw my parents waving at me as I the boat departed from the soil of my home.

Questions for the next class

A) How does one get a job the publishing world? Is a masters necessary?

B) What kinds of jobs are available for creative writers and what is the best way to job search?

C) Do you suggest students to work for a while before getting a MFA or to go straight into further education?

D) How do you go about getting published?


*I look forward to this class discussion!

Free Fall (Revision)

Free Fall
By: Claire Bendig

I was falling. Failing. Falling. Failing. My limps spread out in an attempt to parachute through the white sky. Scared. Sky. My cheeks were pinned out, spit hitting my eyes. Nose. Lips. Lashes. The sway of my cot under the ship deck knotted my stomach and I searched for comfort. My mother’s face appeared in the distance, hands clutching a wrinkled letter. I desperately sought out. il Mama! Hands. Imeh! Touch. Her eyes looked past me and I turned, my throat tight. I begged to not let go, Shakraan! Shakraan! I heard the horn of the ship that was to take me from Lebanon to Ellis Island and watched as my own body waved from the deck.

I stared out at the window in front of me and watched the sky swirl with dark, thundering clouds. The streets were empty, glowing dully by the yellow street lamps. The sidewalks were wet from last night’s rain and the smell of cement wafted towards me. I could see the face of the boy who insisted he was my son yesterday. He said his name was George or Harry, I did not know what to believe. He looked so disappointed and my heart hung heavy in my chest picturing his eyes welling up with a pool of my own mistakes.

“There you are! You were supposed to be in the dining rooms an hour ago, Elaine. Derek is waiting for you,” a woman with curly hair appeared beside me, a hand on my boney shoulder. Her name tag read Joanna and I suppose I’ve met her before.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I responded. I pulled my robe tightly across my chest and followed Joanna out the door. I glanced back at my room as we left and saw a plaque on the door. It read Elaine Richardson. I assumed that was my own name since it was attached to my room. I thought that Richardson seemed like an odd name for a Lebanese woman.

We walked down a linoleum hallway. The ground was comforting in its familiarity. I proudly recognized all of its lines and smudges. I had a connection with the ground beneath me. When walking, my chin was always tucked down, eyes drifting to my toes. I had more time to think when I looked at the ground; I had less eyes to look into and less smiles to mimic.
Joanna nudged me to a table and I sat down. She handed me a glass of water and a plastic cup of pills. Each pill was a different color; I called them anger, sadness, and happiness. I swallowed them in one go and looked around the room.

Nine Tables. I counted nine tables, three occupied by grey and wrinkled. One grey man was in a blue suit similar to my daughter’s husband’s suit. I remember him wearing it to take my daughter to her first school dance, we spent all morning pinning up that wild mane of hers. There were two women in the corner. They wore blue, paper uniforms similar to Joanna’s.

“Elaine,” I turned around to see a bald man with long arms and a wide smile. I knew this man. He was familiar with his familiar clean scent and familiar chipped teeth.

“So good to see you again,” I exclaimed, I held out my hand and he kissed it softly. I didn’t have a clue who he was, perhaps he was my doctor or a brother I forgot about.

“How are you doing today?” He looked like a kind man. “Did you have anything to eat with your pills?” Now that he mentioned it, my stomach was sloshing uncomfortably.

“Could you fix something up for me, Dear?” The man nodded and brushed my hair back. I could feel the frizz around my neck, it was straw.

The man and Joanna whispered, glancing over at me. I nervously fiddled with my night gown and remembered when my father explained to me that I had to leave Lebanon for good. He explained to me that I was to marry a nice man in America. My father’s face was stoic, but his eyes were grieving. He handed me the letter with the wedding arrangements and I remember crumbling it. It was the first time I yelled at my parents. I stared off to the middle of the table at the pile of crumpled mail until steam wafted into my face.

The kind strangers returned with a plate of steaming mashed potatoes. I hated mashed potatoes, they reminded me of the sludgy snow that would pile up on my porch in Michigan. I’d wake up early before the children to clear that porch and for what good? One of the children always ended up slipping. I dipped my fingers into the potatoes, swirling them. The man wrapped my hands around a spoon. It was cold like the snow. I looked up finally, my lips covered in sweet butter and gritty starch. My eyes fixed onto the man’s chest. He was wearing a visitors name tag.

It read Derek Richardson.

My hands began to shake and soon I’m falling. Was this man my husband? Why
did he not look familiar, surely I’d remember the man I had been married to since I was fifteen years old. Mama and Papa had arranged a marriage with a distant cousin in American and sent me to him when I was only fourteen. Surely, I’d remember the face of the man I grew to adore.


“Elaine, do you remember me?” He took my hand I looked at his wedding band. I remember us working day and night at the local butcher to afford our home. It wasn’t until I was twenty four, when we bought proper wedding bands. He insisted that we had ours engraved. I took his hand and twisted the ring searching for the initials.

E. R. was etched on the bottom. My heart thudded with the prospect of knowing the man before me. I smiled widely and threw my arms around him.

“Yes. Yes I do.”

“Oh, my sweet Elaine.” He tilted my head up and our lips touched. I opened my eyes and yelped, stumbling backwards.

“Get him away!”

“Elaine, I’m so sorry!” He put his hands up and stepped backwards.

“Who are you? Don’t touch me! Haven’t you ever learned that its disgraceful to touch a married woman!” A woman with curly hair and a name tag that read Joanna came up to me. She guided me to the corner of the room and sat me down on a couch.


“Joanna, who was that man!”

“That was your husband, Elaine.”

“il Mama would never let me marry someone so old.” How could she think that I would be with such an old man? I was only sixteen years old. “I really think someone should escort him away.” I put my hands on my lap and looked down at my hands. They were wrinkled and covered in liver spots. I reached up and felt my face, the skin was soft and delicate and full of creases. I looked across the room at the man’s back as he walked out of the room.

I was falling. Failing. Falling. Failing. My limps spread out in an attempt to parachute through the white sky.

I heard the screams on my first child and pulled him to my chest, desperately scanning his face for abnormalities. He was perfect. He was smarter than I could ever dream of and worked in Detroit’s Ford Industry everyday. He had two sweet babies that called me Nana. They were blue eyed darlings.

I was lying in the middle of the living room floor. My dear child Emma was playing on the piano and my youngest Gregory was dancing around the room, bless his soul he loved to move. The children were filling the room with a flourish of sound and I could hear Derek fixing up some drinks to celebrate the opening of our very own butcher shop.
I loved animals, I collected them to comfort me. I left out dishes of milk for the alley cats, had a yard of chickens, and two dogs. The daily stripping of cow flesh made me sick and I refused to eat meat. Only when I felt sad did I continue to eat lamb because it reminded me of my grandmother’s grapeleaves.

I tasted the spices of cumin on my tongue and the sharp mint of Tabuleh against my teeth. The continuous process of folding grape leaves with lamb and rice took me back to a childhood where il Mama would scold me to keep the grape leaves tight. I’d make them for my children to bring me back to the memories of my childhood home.

I pressed on the empty flesh on my stomach, longing for warmth of my home cooking. I looked across the table at Derek and he handed me a takeout box of Grapeleaves. I smiled at him and gobbled them like they were the pills to my sanity. We smiled at one another and I felt completely content with accepting that it was my husband across from me.

“It seems like you are feeling good today, Elaine.” I smiled and swallowed my next bite.
“Today has been better than most. I wrote you a letter earlier this morning, in case I forget.” I handed Derek the crumpled paper in my robe pocket.

Derek unfolded the letter and leaned back in his chair. His eyes glossed over after a few minutes. He set down the letter and stared at it.

“You don’t want the children to come visit you anymore?”

“It would be selfish to have them come here. Most days I don’t know who you are or even who I am. Soon I won’t remember anything, the bad days will be every day.”

“But the children won’t want to just leave you.”

“I’d rather their image of me be when I have a touch of sanity. Bring the children on a good day and then we will say our goodbyes.”

“Wouldn’t that be too painful, dear?”

“I’ve said my goodbyes before.”

“You don’t have to always be so strong.”

“I’m begging you.”

“Okay, my Elaine.”

Derek stood up and kissed my forehead, brushing away the tears that curved down my face. He pulled me close and when we let go, my husband was replaced with an older, bald man. He had the same green eyes as my husband, but was decades older.

“Doctor, I’ve been sitting here all day waiting for my pills! I don’t have all day!” How could this man be paid for standing around? The man straightened up and smiled sadly at me.
“I’m so sorry for the wait, I’ll got get you your pills now.”

“Shakraan.” I smiled and leaned into the back of my chair. I watched as the familiar figure walked out of the room and wondered why I left like I was falling. 

Poem in a pocket

Here

Kim Addonizio, 1954

After it ended badly it got so much better
which took a while of course but still
he grew so tender & I so grateful
which maybe tells you something about how it was
I’m trying to tell you I know you
have staggered wept spiraled through a long room
banging your head against it holding crushed
bird skulls in your hands your many hearts unstrung
unable to play a note their wood still beautiful
& carved so elaborately maybe a collector would want them
stupid collectors always preserving & never breaking open
the jars so everyone starves while admiring the view
you don’t own anyone everything will be taken from you
go ahead & eat this poem please it will help

Free Fall

I was falling. Failing. Falling. Failing. My limps spread out in an attempt to parachute through the white sky. Scared. Sky. My cheeks were pinned out, spit hitting my eyes. Nose. Lips. Lashes. My mother’s face appeared in the distance, hands clutching a wrinkled letter. I desperately sought out.  Ladder. Hands. Touch. Her eyes looked past me and I turned, my throat tight. I heard the horn of the ship and watched as my own body waved from the deck.

I kicked off the damp blankets and standing up, I pulled my robe on and walked across the room. The wooden planks soaked the blue light of the moon, sending dancing shadows to my feet. The streets were empty, glowing dully by the yellow street lamps. The sidewalks were wet from last night’s rain and the smell of cement wafted towards me, sweet and inviting.

I couldn’t say how long I stared out that window, but it must have been long enough to call attention.

“There you are! You were supposed to be in the dining rooms an hour ago Elaine. Derek is waiting for you,” Stranger said.

Stranger. Friend. Cat glasses. Red Lips. Red Wrinkled Lips. Nameless.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I responded. I pulled my robe tightly across my chest and followed Stranger out the door. I glanced back at my room as we left and saw a plaque on the door. It read Elaine Richardson. 

We walked down a linoleum hallway. The ground was comforting in its familiarity. I proudly recognized all of its lines and smudges. I had a connection with the ground beneath me. When walking, my chin was always tucked down, eyes drifting to my toes. I had more time to think when I looked at the ground; I had less eyes to look into and less smiles to mimic.

The stranger nudged me to a table and I sat down. She handed me a glass of water and a plastic cup of pills. Each pill was a different color; I called them anger, sadness, and happiness. I swallowed them in one go and looked around the room.

Nine Tables. I counted nine tables. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9. Nine tables. Three occupied by grey and wrinkled. One by a man in a blue velvet suit. I remember the suit. Not the man. Two women are in the corner. They wear blue, paper uniforms like Stranger.

“Elaine,” I turned around to see a redheaded man with long arms and a wide smile.

I knew this man. He was familiar. Familiar fuzzy faced man. Familiar clean scent. Familiar chipped teeth. 

“So good to see you again,” I exclaimed, I held out my hand and he kissed it softly. 

“How are you doing today?” He looked like a kind man. “Did you have anything to eat with your pills?” Now that he mentioned it, my stomach was sloshing uncomfortably. 

“Could you fix something up for me, Dear?” The man nodded and brushed my hair back. I could feel the frizz around my neck, it was straw. 

Stranger and Stranger #2 whispered, glancing over at me. I nervously fiddled with my night gown and remembered when my father explained to me that I had to leave Lebanon for good. He explained to me that I was to marry a nice man in America. My fathers face was stoic, but his eyes were grieving. He handed me the letter with the wedding arrangements and I remember crumbling it. It was the first time I yelled at my parents. I stared off to the middle of the table at the pile of crumpled mail until steam wafted into my face.

The kind strangers returned with a plate of steaming slosh. I munched on it quietly. I dipped my fingers into the potatoes, swirly them. The man wrapped my hands around a spoon. It was cold. I looked up finally, my lips covered in sweet butter and gritty starch. My eyes fixed onto the mans chest. He’s wearing a visitors name tag.

It read Derek Richardson. 

My hands began to shake and soon I’m falling. 

I was falling. Failing. Falling. Failing.

My limps spread out in an attempt to parachute through the white sky. Scared. Sky.

My cheeks were pinned out, spit hitting my eyes. Nose. Lips. Lashes.

I was a newborn fawn. I bucked my legs wildly. Curiously. Angrily.

My hands were unintelligent hooves. I desperately sought out.  Ladder. Hands. Touch.

The cement beckoned me, gravity shifted. Shifted. Scared. Shifted. Acceptance.

Jaimie Re-edit

Jaimie

We didn't help her. We didn't help her when she slid her tray of food beside ours and gave
us lonely glances. We didn't help her when she waited patiently to be picked for kickball, her chest pressed to the back of the crowd. We didn't help her when she stumbled on her lines in the California Mission Play; her lips had pulled into a quivering O as she tried to grasp the date her mission was founded. We didn't help her when she slipped on the rare rain puddle, spilling her books across the damp cement. We didn't help her when she puked into the dying grass after run day. We didn't help her when she tucked her head in shame as a girl pointed out her unshaven legs, fuzzy from the lack of women knowledge. We didn't, we didn’t. I didn't.
It was the second of August when a heat wave rolled across the small beach city. Everyone who was anyone came to the beach, their arms strapped with towels and coolers. I squeezed myself into a spot between a family of eight, who piled greased chicken legs that moistened sunscreen slick lips, and an older couple whose brimmed hats shaded their liver spotted faces. I took my towel and whipped it out in front of me. I knelt beside my green towel and started brushing off the sand and straightening out the wrinkles of fabric.

The ocean was wild today. The waves crashed against one another, smashing the shore with a groan and then bubbling up. Little holes popped against the sand as sand crabs tunneled their way to safety. A young girl cried in frustration as a wave engulfed her sand castle and melted it into a lump of mud. My eyes scanned the beach until they landed on her. Jaimie. Her curves were soft and full. Her arms were fleshy and splattered in freckles that spiraled down her back and to her ankles. She was standing at the shore, the water lapping at her toes. Her arms were spread out wide as if she was going to kick off the ground and fly. She was an angel.

I remembered the time she showed up to the first day of fifth grade like it was yesterday. Her hair was ruggedly chopped to her ears, all of her curls gone. She tucked the frayed pieces behind her floppy ears, the hair framed her face tightly. It was the first time I truly noticed the scar that traced her face from the top of her right temple, down her jaw. I heard that it was from a car accident that reduced her family of four to three.

I remember when Jaimie and I first really talked. We were seated in the back of the sixth grade class room. We were the only ones at our table when the alarm system went off and we were told to duck and cover. There was a suspicious figure roaming the middle school and we were all told to hide until the school was in the clear.

Jaimie and I slid under our desk, legs tangled with one another. “I think I’m too tall for this,” I joked when my foot dug into her hip.

“Take as much space as you need.” She wedged herself between the chair and leg of the table.

I remember her apologies about the death of my sister in the swimming accident last summer. I sent similar regards about her father. We didn’t sugar coat the conversation, both of our situations were awful and we felt at peace that we were both experiencing the same unfathomable feeling of heart wrenching grief. Once the principal gave the classes the okay to climb from underneath their shelters, we pulled away from each other.

We never talked again until Sophomore year of high school when we were paired up for a science project. She invited me to her house and led me up to her room, which was covered in vintage furniture that she found at estate sales. Her walls were covered in cork board and she had pinned scraps of art and quotes. It was organized chaos. We worked on our presentation about the planets in the middle of the floor, but conversation interrupted our work often. We got in a heated debates about canned nacho cheese versus shredded cheese and what it means to be basic. She would never raise her voice, she would just talk quietly at a rapid speed that would win every argument. Once the project was finished, we never hung out again.

I continued to watch her on the beach shore line until a hand clasped my shoulder. "Brian! My man! We were looking for you - the beach is fucking jammed today," Aaron said. He was surrounded by the familiar faces of my friends from school. Their names were Joe, Will, Frank, Kevin and Big Mike. They all unrolled their towels, cramming them next to a pile of chicken bones.

"I've been waiting way too long, I'm going to take a swim. You pussies can sun bath all you want," I said standing up and brushing the specks of sand off of me. Frank ran behind me, throwing his t-shirt over his head. His belly jiggled as his feet hit the ground. He whooped with joy and threw himself into the ocean. Laughing, I followed. I glanced to my left to look at Jaimie. She was on her back, pushing snow angels into the surface of the salty foam.

My toes dipped into the sea, surprised by its warmth I walked to mid shin. Aaron came over to me and punched my shoulder.

"Ew look who it is..." He pointed to Jaimie. I huffed and looked the other way.

"I think she looks pretty nice." Aaron stared at me and I pushed the wet strands from my face roughly.

"Nothing, forget it."

"Are you blind? What did you even just say?”

"I think you should just let up man. You've hated her since kindergarten." "You're an idiot."

I pulled away from Brian and deeper into the ocean. Frank waved to me from far away. He swam to end of the pier and was a small speck in the distance. Frank was on the water polo team, which meant he liked to show off his swimming skills. I doggy paddled my way across the surface. A wave pulled close and I dunked myself under it. The water smashed against my face and I pressed my palms against my eyes to dry them. I flinched as a bundle of sea weed hit my leg and I stumbled backwards. I untangled to the slimy mess from my ankle and threw it a few feet beside me.

The other guys tumbled into the ocean, swimming in front of me towards Frank. I waded slowly further, but stopped when I was chest deep. Kevin motioned me further and I reluctantly took another step and stopped again.

"Come on Brian! I thought you wanted to go for a swim," Joe screamed out to me.

I swallowed thickly, feeling overwhelmed by their beckoning calls. I pulled my arms against the water, pulling myself out further. Another wave broke and I was unable to duck under it in time. It crashed against my face making me gasp for air. My open lips filled my mouth with salt water and I coughed. I took another step further until I sunk suddenly. The ground dipped low and water flushed above my head. I frantically pushed water around me to break the surface.

I could see my sisters arms reaching out to me. I reached for them frantically and swished through more heavy water. Her lips bubbled as she screamed for me. I yelled back, my mouth spewing more liquid. The water hit the back of my thought and burned in my nose. I watched as she sunk to the bottom and I slowly sunk with her. I looked down at my hands surprised to see how big they were, how strong they looked. I looked back over to my sister and she was gone.

I kicked wildly and got caught up in more seaweed. The more frantic I got, the less air I had in my chest. I opened my eyes and watched the surface of the water. Light reflected against it, dancing on the surface. I could make out the blue of the sky, but couldn't make out its clouds. Air was just an arm away, but slowly the sky dissolved into darkness. Clouds came into view thundering the surface into black ink smears. Just as the darkness absorbed the dancing light, I felt something grab my hand.

I came to on the hot sand. A female voice called out to me like an angel. "Brian! Brian! Come on, open your eyes." My eyes felt heavy, their lashes clumped together by salt and sand. They fluttered open and an figure emerged above me, highlighted by brightness.
"Emily?" I murmured and squinted at her. "I'm sorry.” I blubbered hysterically, “I’m so sorry I didn’t save you.”

“Brain! It’s okay! It’s Jaimie.”

“Jaimie?” Jaimie pulled me up so that I was sitting, looking out at the water. Some of the guys ran out of the water and came to me.

"Are you okay?" Will and Frank kneeled next to, handing me a jug of water.

"Yea. I'm fine." I brushed the tears from my face, smudging sand across my cheeks.

"Good thing Jaimie was watching you," Will said smiling at her. She blushed and stood up, brushing the specks of sand from her knees.

“I was swimming pretty close to him. Once I lost sight of him, I just had to start looking.”

“Good thing you did. Come on dude, let’s get you dried off.” Frank pulled me up and my face felt hot with embarrassment.

“I should actually get going." Jaimie said. She tucked her curly short hair behind her ears like she always used to.

“Thank- thank you.” I’m so sorry I didn’t. Then the strangest thing happened, she smiled at me like all was forgiven. 

Pub Crawl

My pub crawl experience was a short one, only an hour. But during that time, I felt very inspired to start writing. I listened to the first speaker Gordon McAlpine. He talked about his new book and his experience being a writer. I think what stood out most was him saying,

"The writer is the creature of the novel."

I completely understand what he means by this. Sometimes writing takes hold of me and I don't even know what will happen next. I think this is also what I struggle with as a writer. I need deeper outlines before I start writing, because sometimes I have this shell of a story that I don't know where to go with. My current story I am workshopping needs much more structure so that descriptions can better move my plot and characters along. I think that I just need to take a poster and start story boarding. With this method, I think I'll have a better direction with my piece.