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.

Tap Dancing Performance

This weekend (Saturday 6pm Memorial Hall) I went to Chapman's tap dancing performance. The performance was for non dance majors and I went to support a good friend of mine. Along with Chapman's students, a group of dancers from Compton came and performed. The premise of the show was the explain how tap dancing came about. It originated from African tribal dancing and Irish dancing. Between each song, a student would come to the stage and explain the progression of tap dancing.

I think that there was a very literary link to tap dancing. The flow and rhythm of the dance is very similar to the rhythms found in poetry. I decided to look up poems about tap dancing and came across a few that I enjoy.



Gerry Legister:
An airy tune play flavors we adore
Generate the breathe of vibrant sound, 
Tap politely crescendo shoes on the floor
Dance stance move lightly off the ground.

Into this movement of swing and speed, 
Trapped charm in space by metallic plates, 
The choreography steps and style succeed, 
To shuffle the dances combination creates.

Unique blend for either student or enjoyment
Evoke rhythm flames with creative elements
Known and shown where originality meant, 
Entertainment display enthuse the movements.

By arts the intent of skill is given for learning, 
Magical poetry found in the thrill of dancing. 

Tap Dancing Rain: Stu Harley

can you
hear the
sound of 
sweet rain
tap dancing
to the tune
while
i'm singing in
the rain
upon the
cobblestone streets of
Spain

"Surrounded by Sleep" Akhil Sharma

"Surrounded by Sleep" was a very interesting story because it unfolded the way people deal with grief. A child is innocent and very unaware of the world. It is the time to explore the meaning and purpose of life. Ajay tries to develop a relationship with God to give him faith that everything will be okay. I had a similar experience in my own life, where I faced tragedy and had to personify and identify a high power to come to peace with the tragedy of life.  A child's perspective is perfect for this piece because childhood is rightfully the time to start questioning everything. What makes the voice powerful and believing is that despite the childhood wonder, there is a deep, adult view that seeps into the view of the child. Overall, I thought the story was beautifully written.


_________________The opening scene made me write this:

The first time I could remember swimming was at Bass Lake. My aunt pulled me up by the straps of my lifejacket and chucked me into the lake. My head bobbed up and down against the flow of the lake, the cool water wrapping against my skin. I'd call up to my aunt, water stinging my eyes. I'd reach up to her, the boat drifting off. I'd kick to her and she'd reach down and yank me out. The straps tight against my neck as I was lifted back onto the  boat.

 When I was in elementary school, I used to yell underwater as the pool cleaner snaked towards my feet. I never swam too close to the gutter either, I feared that it would suck me up.

In the third grade, my mother walked me to the public pool and took my shoes away from me. She told me to get into the chlorinated pool with the rest of the kids. "I don't know how to swim like them, Ma," I whined and she nudged me, promising me that I'd learn.

In middle school, I joined the top swim team in the South Bay. I'd practice every night from six to eight, Monday through Saturday. When people asked me what stoke I swam, I'd say, "Butterfly" because I knew people wanted to hear that. It was the best and the worst time of my childhood.

In high school I joined the water polo team because I was sick of watching the lines at the bottom. It was an exciting sport. Everyone was overly aggressive and I stopped fighting with my siblings because I was too tired. I worked out five hours a day, seven days a week. Water polo exhaustion blurred all my memories of high school.

Today, my back pressed to the bottom of the pool scratching at my back. The black tiles of the lines were rough at my finger tips. I let the air fall from my chest and watched as bubbles floated to the surface. Light reflected from above, making my parents dance at the edge.

I closed my eyes let my empty lungs float me to the surface. My nose peeked out of water and I sipped in the hot air. How peaceful it was.

Missed Connection

I forgot the milk for my son's birthday cupcakes. I'm not sure how it happened, since I remembered every other ingredient including the dazzling spiderman candles. Yet, as I was mixing the flour and sugar with the other dry ingredients, I came to the realization that I finished the last of the carton this morning with the cereal. I escaped through the back door, trying not to wake my over attached husky mix. Jimmy would cry for hours, making the neighbor's ears bleed until I got home. I sneaked a glance at him sleeping by the front windows and tiptoed out the back door. Just as I clicked the gate shut, Jimmy chased after me wailing in desperation. "I'll be home in 5 minutes, Jesus." I walked away from my house, cringing as Jimmy called after me and my neighbor across the street gave me a disapproving glance as he watered his dead plants. I walked to the corner of Maple and Palm and entered the liquor store. I took a basket and roamed the aisles. I picked up a bag of red vines and slipped it between my lips like a cigarette. I bit off the end and sucked air through it, whistling until I reached the refrigerated back wall. I grabbed the last milk carton in the far back. That is where the freshest product is always stored. With my hands full of miscellaneous candy and milk, I swung around to walk to the cashier. The licorice in my mouth flung out of my mouth a hit you on the leg. I looked up and you laughed, handing me the now hair and lint covered candy. You told me that it was also your favorite treat. I replied that if someone told me twirlers were better one more time, I'd punch them. You thought I was funny. You ended up carrying my jug of milk to my house and we talked the whole time about how terrifying space movies are and how they mess with your head. I made you tea, because coffee makes you anxious. You said it makes you poop and you can only poop in the silence of your own home. I confessed similar thoughts, so we shared a pot of chai. You helped me make my kid's cupcakes. I was thankful because I had never baked a day in my life. You showed my how to dye the insides and we made spider man themed cakes. You said your mother taught you everything you know. I  though it was sweet that you talked so much about your mother. Before I knew it, you were helping me put out snacks for the my son's birthday party. You opened the cupboards looking for plates, as comfortable as if you lived here. I could picture that, we'd be sipping tea rationalizing that we were not coexisting with aliens to get to bed at night. I lent you my high school sweatshirt. It fit your broad shoulders and I explained that I lost 60 pounds in one of those biggest loser shows. You looked impressed and then I admitted it was my brothers. You and I just fit together. We laughed at each other's hyper critical nagging of the world around us. We fought over the best flavor of french fry and the worst way to die. You and I somehow wandered into our lives and wandered out of them. You got a call from your sister asking you to meet her for dinner. It seemed urgent so you scribbled your number onto a napkin and we kissed goodbye near front steps of my house. It was our first date, our first beginning together. I wandered back into the kitten dazed by your charm. I picked up some trash left over from the birthday party and put in the bin next the counter. I looked over to where you had sat and remembered your snort embedded laughter. I smiled and went to pick up your scribbled digits.Then, my heart sunk. The paper was no longer on the table. I looked around frantically and then saw a corner of the purple note on Jimmy's bed. Just a small edge of my future remained, the rest liquidating in my dog's intestines. I sunk onto the floor, the piece of paper fluttering from my finger tips. You were gone, with no way to reach you. What is you thought I didn't care? It was all a missed connection. 

Brownies by ZZ Packer

BROWNIES - ZZ PACKER

I think there is a lot that can be learned from ZZ Packer's story "Brownies." I personally really enjoyed this piece because the writer had a very unique voice that I could draw from.











From a writers perspective, the imagery was very unique. She described objects in a very unexacting way which peeks the readers interests. What were some of your favorite lines as a reader?



Some of my favorite lines were:

"That did it, the girls in our group turned elastic" (page 3)

Baby Pigeon descriptions throughout

"A convey of insects threw up tantrums from the wheat grass" (page 11)

"Shaggy white balls of paper towels sat on sink tops like corsages on display" (page 12)



What about the story made you curious and attentive enough to keep reading?
For me, reading about an unexpected POV of racism was interesting. ZZ Packer wrote, "What are you... Caucasian" (Page 4) The story really highlights the racial divide and how meaningless it really is. At the end of the story Laurel, aka Snot, talks about her father asking some white people to paint their porch in order to enjoy the sight of white people kneeling before him. One of the children asks if the father said thank you. This innocent question shows how cruel and pointless racial divide can be.

What to take away as a writer?
1) The attention to detail makes the story more believable.

2) I thought that the use of absurd descriptions made the story come alive.

3) Write in a setting that is from a distant memory.

I used to be a girl scout and have tons of memories of dirty camp grounds and whispering gossip between bites of burnt marshmallows. 

I think its so important to retrieve these memories and write within the setting of them.

4) The bigger picture will come out eventually, just focus on the smaller story.

I think ZZ Packer does a great job focusing on a girl's camping trip and through conversation the story opens up to reveal a much bigger theme about racial injustice.

We Didn't

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, that brought quite the spread of food (greased chicken legs that moistened sunscreen slick lips), and an older couple who wore brimmed hats and had their own umbrella. I took my towel and whipped it out in front of me. Sand had spattered onto it so I kneeled 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 a familiar figure. 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 continued to watch her 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 Michael (we like to call him Big Mike). They all unrolled their towels, jamming them next to a pile of chicken bones and the umbrella bag.

"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 had waded in to waist level, her flingers fluttered against the water.

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. "Why would she show her body to the public? Its gross man."

"I think she looks pretty nice."

"Dude, what did you say?"

"Nothing, forget it."

"How could you think she looks nice? Are you blind?"

"I think you should just let up man. You've hated her since kindergarten. She's actually a pretty nice person."

"You're an idiot."

"Thanks." I pulled away from Brian and deeper into the ocean. Frank waved to me from far away. He had 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 could only really doggy paddle 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, "don't be such a loser all time." 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 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.

"Jaimie?" I murmured and squinted at her.

"Yea it's me."

"I'm sorry." She grasped my hand and smiled.

"It was no problem, I was swimming right next to you." 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."

"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 should probably get going." Jaimie said. She tucked her curly short hair behind her ears and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Thanks again. I'll see you around?" I asked. She smiled and nodded and walked off, before the other boys stumbled out of the sea.

Meditation

I think meditation is such a great practice to do everyday. When I first started a couple years ago, I could never sit still. I always had too many thoughts running through my head. The more I practiced though, the easier it was to calm my mind. I have seen the benefits from this meditative practice with my stress and anxiety. I think that it is a great thing for everyone to try.

If you have never tried meditative body scan, try it out. It's a great practice for beginners because it is very guided and you can focus on the voice. Here's a link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cstdBKVZ6B4

If you'd like a good laugh, check out this meditation: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dvC4Yu3ILUc

Namaste!
Claire

Observations

Field Trip to the Circle 

(Orange Union High School, 1920)
______________________________
-Orange High School is scratched away from the top of memorial hall's building, but still barely visible to students roaming Chapman's campus.

-Curtains are drawn over apartment windows wedged about store fronts.

-An old man wanders down the street with a week old newspaper clasped behind his hands. Perhaps he hasn't figured out the crossword and is stubborn as hell.

-A group of sorority sisters huddle by the fountain, prancing around in faux slow motion to create the perfect recruitment video. There is one girl who looks left out. She is the only one with short hair and is shuffled out of the video shot.

-A little girl play with a tiara placed on the bed of curls on her head. She is the princess of Palace Circle.

The Things They Carried

 They all carried ghosts.

The things they carried were determined to some extent by superstition.

They shared the weight of memory. They took up what others could no longer bear.

They carried the sky. The whole atmosphere, they carried it, the humidity, the monsoons, the stink of fungus and decay, all of it, they carried gravity.

It was very sad, he thought. The things men carried inside. The things men did or felt they had to do.

____________________________

The beginning of the story starts out with minor descriptions of what the soldiers carried as they travelled through the Vietnamese War. As the story progresses, the metaphorical weight of what they carried grows heavier. Each description tells a ton about each solider. Whether they were religious, scared, superstitious, or home sick, their packed belonging showed it. By the end, their minimal items grow to the weight of the sky, showing the pressure and weight they feel of fighting in such a violent way. The quotes listed above felt the most powerful to me.

As a writer, a great thing to take away is how the author really followed the saying, "show it don't tell it." By the little detailed descriptions, the reader was able to draw so much more from the story. The detailed descriptions also make the story much more believable to the reader because the descriptions are easily visualized. I think I'd like to play more with little descriptions to grow characterization. Perhaps the characters belongings or clothing would tell much more than a general description.

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.

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.

 I was awake. 

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. Old. I was old? I was young? Familiarity. 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. It was a force of habit, I could remember my father reprimanding me for this as I grew up. He would say, “Watch where you’re walking. There are beautiful things you are missing.” I couldn’t disagree more. The ground held intricacies and wonder for the imagination. The ground told me where I was stepping and left the mystery of what’s beneath it. 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,” I exclaimed. I tried to not come off as clueless. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings for not remembering. I could tell that he didn’t buy my sincerity. His smile faded slightly. 

“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 mingled. Mashed potatoes are my favorite. Butter. Yellow. Rich.

 From cows I eat butter. Cow meat. Beef. Never to be eaten.

The kind strangers return 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. Its 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.

Airplane

Airplane

I watched as my home drifted beneath me. With a flip in my stomach, we soared into the air. I stared out the window as pavement morphed into houses, the buzz of LA traffic, the blue abyss, and finally though the thickness of the clouds.

My ticket read Seat 36C. The ticket was crumpled from being shoved from the printer, to my purse, to my computer bag, to my jacket, through the security machine, to my jeans pocket, and to my anxious hands. I'm surprised that it didn't get lost from my bedroom to Seat 36C.

I lugged my carryon beside me, the crease at my elbow cramping from the strain. I didn't want to risk lost luggage, so I stuffed my life into my chlorine abused high school water polo bag. The thing must be at least ten years old. I kept bag close to my side, yet it bumped into seats and snagged on arm rests. 

I made it to my seat, tapping the man on the end. "Hi there, I'm the window seat here." He pulled out his head phones and look up at me quizzically.

 I waved my ticket and he hastily unbuckled his seat belt saying, "Oh, sorry about that! Here let me help you with that bag." He was tall, taller than me and that was saying a lot. I'm six feet tall and a quarter inch, just in case anyone today decided to ask.

He lifted the bag above his head, his muscles bulging from his t-shirt. The hem of his shirt hiked up showing his navel. I flushed and look away. 

"Ah!" 

The man was tucking the bag in when something feel out from the bag's pockets, smacking him in the eye. I hastily bent down to pick up the item and his hand met mine. 

"What do we have here?" He joked, the other hand rubbing his head. I looked at his hand and quickly snatched it from his fingers. 

"It's just a keep sake." It was my pouch of rocks. This perfectly good looking strangers was going to think I was a total weirdo. I carried around a sack of rocks and he got hit in the face by them. 

"You carry around rocks?"

"Yeah, long story." I watched him close the door to the overhead bin and wave me to sit down in my seat. 

"We have five hours until we reach Michigan."

"You're pretty persistent in knowing my life story for being a perfect stranger. You know that?"

"What can I say? You intrigue me." He smiled at me, his cheeks dimpling and the creases around his eyes folding. The man had reddish brown hair that was ruffled everywhere. He was freckled everywhere including his long fingers that danced around on the arm rest. 

"I feel like this is one sided. I don't even know your name."

"Its Aaron. I'm assuming your name is Emma Jenkins?"

"How..."

"It was sewed on your bag."

"That makes sense." My face turned pink and my ears felt hot. I couldn't help but wonder why he was so interested.

"So tell me about the rocks, Emma."

"Well it's going to sound ridiculous.."

"I was guessing it might, who weighs down their bag with rocks?" I huffed and squinted my eyes.

"I do. I collect them."

"You collect rocks?"

"Everywhere I go, I pick up a rock. Instead of a post card or something. Say I visit the Eiffel Tower, I'll pick up a pebble right beneath it and than I'm label it. That was I can see everywhere I've been."

"Fascinating. How many have you collected?"

"Hundreds. You see, I'm a travel writer, so I visit new places all the time."

"You don't live in LA or Michigan?"

"No, technically I don't live anywhere. My parents are from Delaware, but I just hop from place to place."

"That must get lonely."

"No, I get to meet new people everyday."

"Like me!"

"Exactly." We shared a smile. 

So now you know my weirdest hobby, tell me your story."

"I am one of nine sibling from Southgate, MI. I moved to LA for my photography career. I'm still waiting for it to kick start, so in the mean time I mostly photograph weddings."

"Photography, I've always wanted to learn."

A stewardess pushed a cart to us, "Would you like anything to drink?"

"I'll have a tomato juice," Aaron said, pulling down his tray table. I followed suit.

"And you Miss?"

"Could I get a ginger ale?"

"Certainly," the stewardess handed us our drinks. Mine fizzled and when I brought in to my lips to sip it, the carbonated bubbles snapped at the tip of my nose. 

The two of us continued to talk and I never even got the chance to pull out my book in my purse. Aaron had a fascinating life, moving from Michigan fresh out of high school with no money or plan. His determination was refreshing. He was refreshing. He talked with excitement about his own life and showed intense interest with mine. 

I wondered if I'd ever see him again and I voiced this as we deciding through the clouds. He took my hand and said of course we'd see each other again. Aaron leaned over and grabbed his napkin and pulled out a pen from his pocket. He scribbled his number and asked for mine as well, in case one of us lost the numbers. 

As we exited the plane, I wondered if we'd ever really speak again. We parted ways at the carrousel and he hugged me tightly. I felt a longing to find a rock at our feet to remember the fleeting memory. Shouldering the strap of my bag, I exited to airport, longing that we both felt certainty that we would meet again.