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. 

Emergency - Denis Johnson

I really enjoyed reading Emergency by Denis Johnson because it was unexpectedly different from other short stories I have read.

I think that most important part of a story the characters within it. As a reader I like to become emotionally invested with the people I am reading about. In this story, I was very curious and I felt for them.

I've never met a Georgie in my life. He was unique and struggling. The guy is highly sensitive and cared about life. The story ends with him saying, "I save lives." Because of this deep compassion, I became invested in learning more about him. Despite his attachment to drugs, he just seems lost to me. For example, Georgie is crying over mopping the floor because he can't seem to wipe the non existent blood away. He is overwhelmed by the pain and grief surrounding him. What makes him curious though is how he pulls a knife out of a patients eye with no fears, yet is distraught over the floor and a run over bunny. When faced with death, he looses it unable to control the outcome. I think he was so calm with the bloody patient because he knew that in the face of life or death, he'd choose to save the man's life.

The narrator Fuckhead, in my opinion, is very detached. He accesses the by just stating the facts of what he is witnessing without any emotions attached. Because of this, the tone of the story is very undramatic and detached. The scenes are full of heart tugging moments, like dead bunnies and drug use, yet the narrator talks about them without excess energy. This allows the reader to form his or her own opinions about the scenes and it also gives insight to the kind of character the narrator is.

 The dialogue was great in this story. It flowed very naturally and matched well with the characters. Georgie's dialogue was frantic and overwhelmed where as Fuckhead's tone was detached. There was a dramatic difference in the way each spoke, yet the use of colloquial language makes the text more inviting and developed.

FAVORITE IMAGERY:
"Daylight knocking against our eyelids"
"Fragrance thickening on our tongues"
"Knuckles of my spine"
"Curtains of snow"

Denis Johnson write with beautiful precision that paints a vivid landscape. I feel inspired by his diction and command of language!

A Returned Curiosity

For fifty years I worked as a receptionist at the Orthodontics Center on the corner of Grand and Fifth Street. I lived a simple life, one full of the monotony of routine. Each day went about the same way. I would wake Jack up at 6am and we would roll over in bed and tell each other our dreams.   

Jack had wild dreams. He would usually be on the run from fictitious creatures. Jack followed the rule book of dreams, always dreaming without color and waking before his death. My dreams were the opposite. I'd die in them constantly. Instead of walking up in a start, I'd drift from my body and watch the dream play out from above. It is as if my brain wanted to watch the aftermath and calculate what was going to happen next. Most morning I’d wake up in start, stories pouring from my lips. Jack and I would share our fears and excitement before carrying on with our day.

My husband was therapist. He has a heart that never overflowed, he always listened to the people around him with the intention of being a trusted friend. Jack was a saint. We met in a coffee shop when I was only nineteen years old. Being eight years older than me, I was intimidated by him at first. Despite this, we became quick friends and eventually got married when I was twenty two. Jack and I had our first child, Ana, two years later.

I never thought Jack and I would ever be a part until one day his heart betrayed us on the golf course. Jack was seventy nine years old. It was the nightmare from my dreams. 

After a year of contemplation, I decided to retire from the dental office. Washing the smell of antiseptic and gum molds from my skin, I set off to San Francisco.

My eldest daughter Ana  lived in the city with her husband Jeremy. I had two grand babies waiting for me and I was ready to find peace again, like Jack would have wanted. For too long I was stuck watching my body move from above. I wanted to wake up kick from above and release myself from the cruel hold. I imagined Jack shaking my arm and telling me to imagine a better dream to escape the ones around me. 

I arrived in San Francisco in early October. I rented a small studio apartment above a coffee shop. It was very quaint compared to the family home I raised my children in. I didn’t need anything bigger though because it was just me and Fredrick, my nine year old greyhound. The apartment had an open floor plan surrounded by bright windows that flushed in warm light.

I sat on the floor, peeling off tape from a box labelled paints. I pulled out my favorite art book and flipped through the pages. I thumbed through until I found a dog eared page, worn by stains of acrylic. Wedged in the binding of the book there was an envelope. It read, to my sweet Emily. I opened in, remembering its contents. It was an anniversary letter from Jack. He gave me this book as a gift with rekindle my love for painting. I opened the letter and read it. 

Dear my sweet Emily,

My life has been full of endless happiness. I have witness my children grow in successful adults, I have felt empowered to grow my own practice and I have felt loved with every moment of my life. This happiness is because of you. Your kind heart has made me the luckiest man. I would not take away any of the memories we have shared. My darling Emily, it is time for you to focus of your passions. You must begin to forget what happened ten years ago. Follow your heart my love.

Always,

Jack

Welcome!

Welcome to my blog! My name is Claire Bendig and I have an undeniably curious mind. I am on a journey to become an expressive writer at Chapman University. I am a creative writing major who craves to share the stories of the world around me.

A little about me: I meditate daily, I'm a lifeguard, I am a twin born on the first day of Gemini, my family runs a mobile pet grooming company, and I am am excited to grow as a writer.

Contact information: bendi101@mail.chapman.edu