Her real name wasn’t Bendy Straw. It was Beatrice—Beatrice McClintock. But everyone in school called her Bendy Straw. She could contort herself into a pretzel and did so as often as she pleased: during free time in gym, before the start of each class. She’d walk home like that girl from The Exorcist, even when the asphalt was hot enough to melt high-end tennis shoes. She had blisters on her palms, and her elbows were rough from supporting her weight; but if Bendy was in pain, we never knew. Not once did she scream or flinch or wince or cry. She’d just twist herself up and smile the whole time she was doing it. Rumor mill had it, she couldn’t feel pain; of if she did, she liked it. I wouldn’t call us friends, but we were neighbors. We walked home together when it wasn’t raining or cold. We both hated the bus. It smelled like toe jam, unwashed armpits and late-afternoon breath, which is more tolerable than morning breath, but just barely so. Sometimes, Bendy would come over when our moms were working late at the hospital. She’d go to the couch and flip-flop herself so that her butt was touching her back. We’d watch cartoons and laugh so hard, milk came out of our noses, even when the jokes weren’t that funny. Most times, we sat in silence. We didn’t need to talk. Bendy liked sitting in quiet, and so did I. High school was loud. Always—always—there was screaming or laughing or crying or moaning; lockers rattling as they were slammed, some poor, unfortunate vomiting in the nearby trash can. One night, Bendy said, “We should take everybody’s tongues.” I took a drink of my Coke, belched. “That wouldn’t stop them from making noise.” Bendy shrugged and lifted her right leg up and up until her ankle rested by her ear. “True, but at least they would stop talking.” “Is it the talking that annoys you?” Bendy thought about it for a moment. She dropped her leg and then stretched into a split, her left foot on top of my thigh. “No, not really. I don’t like anybody there.” “You like me.” Bendy leaned over and pinched my thigh “That’s different. You don’t try and look at my underwear every time I twist up.” “But I’ve seen your underwear.’ “Not on purpose.” “How do you know that? I could be secretly horrible.” Bendy looked at me and smiled. Her teeth were jagged and a little yellow, but Bendy’s mom refused to get her braces, said she wouldn’t take away the thing that made her unique. “You are, but you’re horrible in a different way.” “And what way is that?“ “You fell me. What’s your brand of awful?“ Playing hopscotch while thinking about breaking fingers; stealing the old beer out of the liquor fridge and drinking until I was sick; touching wildlife that shouldn't be touched--the bats and coyotes and worms and birds and rats. I hide skin magazines my father left behind and study the women in the black-and-white photographs. I’ve spent hours trying to find the thing that made my father love them instead of me and mom. Loving a girl whose body is unlimited, even by her bones. Adoring a girl who has a burn scar on her thigh, wishing to kiss a girl who growls and drools every time she imitates Pazuzu, uncaring who sees, sucking in the attention of everyone who does. I shrug and take another drink. “Haven't figured it out, yet.“ Bendy gathers her legs under her and tips over to kiss my cheek. “Let me know when you do, so we can be awful together.“

Hello all! This is your pastel-gremlin speaking! As some of you may know, I have been posting on this blog for a few months now, but I have decided to scrap what was currently on the blog and start over. It felt disjointed, and I didn't like what I had posted. This will still be a place for short stories, poetry and other forms of creative writing. Please don't hesitate to leave a comment or a like if you like what you see! I hope you all enjoy my nuggets of creativity!