Here's A Short Piece Of Something I Wrote About A Year Ago. There's A Plane In It.

Aspen hates planes. She hates the way she feels when they roll faster and faster down the runway until they tilt backwards. She hates the automatic urge to hold her breath as the plane propels itself up into the sky, as it steadies itself out until it’s easy flying. She hates the awed silence that echoes throughout the whole plane right before it steadies itself out—the same awed silence as the plane holds it’s breath when it lands, skidding along the runway, eager to have it’s feet back on the ground again. The awed silence as the pilot has trouble pressing hard enough on the brakes, everyone’s hearts and chests rattling up and down and all around until the plane regains its land legs. She’d like if she didn’t have to hold her breath—not for one second. Nothing should let itself be tossed that high in the air and if it is stupid enough to let itself be tossed up 10,000 feet with heavy metal wings serving as balance, it should be just as recklessly tossed back onto its ***.
Her mom taps her lightly on the shoulder and points out a pair of loafer heels that Aspen would like in a magazine her mom picked out under the fluorescent airport shop lights. A flight attendant with short white-blonde hair and a shock of pink lipstick on her full mouth hands both Aspen and her mom some pretzels and peanuts with a slight smile and moves onto the others. “How much longer ‘till we land?” Aspen asks, casually as the plane hits a little bump. She hates that, too. The bumps. Isn’t air homogenous? Why are there bumps? Clouds. But clouds seem like cotton, pliable and soft. If anything she figures they’d help the plane propel itself faster through the blue.
“Well I don’t know, darling. Does it matter? I always found it peaceful—flying.” She smooths over some wild strands back from Aspen’s face and smiles at her like she’s still little Aspen, playing mermaid in the pool and dress up in the backyard. “You loved it when you were little.” Aspen smiles back at her mom and places her hand over hers for a moment.
Aspen remembers her first flight. She was seven and her mother had her long, silky hair tied up in a pretty knot. Her mom had on a slinky Bohemian style dress with a pretty Cerulean pattern, a camel colored trench covering her tan frame up. They were going to Paris in the spring. Her father—well she remembers cigarette smoke, that’s the first that comes to mind whenever she thinks of him, which is close to never. Cigarettes and smoke and ash and eyes that were just as impossibly blue and deep as hers. She inherited her father’s eyes and rich dark hair. His hair was always pushed back neatly with a silver comb he carried in his trouser pocket. Her mother had golden blonde hair and hazel eyes, enviably tanned skin like she was perpetually vacationing in the South of France and she carried all the glamour and worldliness to match. She inherited her mother’s love of glamour and the full effect of that beautiful tan, but possesses only half of her overall beauty. When her mother walked into a room, air escaped every man’s lungs and confidence escaped every woman’s bosom; even now she still has the same effect with creases around her eyes and faint laugh lines framing her naturally full lips. If anything, it seems she’s only gotten more beautiful with age. Then, her mom never let go of Aspen’s small hand, her nails painted a pale pink that matched her ballet slippers tucked under her bed at home, her favorite color when she was seven—as was every girl at that age in her class. Her father was somewhere, probably at the phone booth. But as they boarded, she remembers his large hand on the small of her mother’s back, a thick silver band on his ring finger. Her mother had a tan roller suitcase with her, but still kept her hand around Aspen’s, the diamonds of her mom’s wedding ring pressing a little against her skin. That ring fascinated her. The way the facets of the diamond could steal light and hold it greedily until it wished to refract some of its light across windows and doors, across her mother’s hair. Aspen’s other hand grasped a magenta suitcase that’s pushed somewhere in the back of the garage now. Once on the plane, Aspen sat on the right of her mother. Her father sat at the window—watching the outside world get faster as the plane began to saunter down the runway. Her mom kept her eyes on hers the whole time, waiting for her to begin to get scared. But she didn’t.

She didn’t even hold her breath.