"Wish You Were Here" by E. J. Nash — Our September 2022 Bronze Medal Winner

E. J. is our third place winner from the contest posted in our September 2022 issue!

What the judges had to say:

“This author expertly used irony to develop a sense of longing to be somewhere ‘other than’ a place like the image prompt. The characters were bold and developed. ”

“...very compelling.... a story both heartwarming and complicated.”

“This is a very engaging short story, with strong elements of suspense and vivid characterization.”

Meet E. J.

E. J. Nash is an Ottawa-based writer. Previous work has been published in The Globe and Mail, Nature Futures, PACE Magazine, The First Line, Idle Ink, and elsewhere. She can be found on Twitter @Nash_EJ.

Wish You Were Here

the unedited story by E. J. Nash

Five minutes before the crash I spilled coffee over my uniform. The airline had a strict dress code for flight attendants: navy pencil skirt, white blouse, paisley neckerchief, kitten heels. The blouse was the worst part. Even on a normal flight I could never maintain a spotless outfit at thirty thousand feet in the air when serving coffee, tea, and wine.

The liquid blossomed over my shirt, and I did my best to pinch the burning fabric away from my skin. I bit my tongue to avoid yelling something I would regret - swearing in front of guests was against company policy.

The redheaded woman in seat 10C, who had requested the coffee in the first place, looked over at her daughter. “That’s why we go to school, honey,” she said.

My hands clenched against the handle of the coffee pot. Being a flight attendant had not been the glitzy and sun-drenched experience that I had craved. Perhaps the job was once treated with respect, but now I was plagued by jet lag, poor pay, and crash pads crawling with bed bugs and other unrecognizable insects. None of that had been explained in the six-week training course that the airline provided. Even the travel was hardly worth it: I’d visited only a handful of countries, and in most of those I was limited to airports and the surrounding hotels.

It’s not like I could admit any of the disadvantages to my parents, who were proud of me for landing the job and supporting their medical bills. I would purchase postcards from airport kiosks that featured downtown nightscapes and beaches with waving palm trees. My notes were jaunty, cute, and contained fictional stories of all the fun I was having. Wish you were here!

The woman in 10C tapped me on the arm with her manicured fingers. “Since you spilled the first one, the second coffee is still free, right?”

Both my hands were full with napkins that I was using to wipe up the spill. My shirt was beyond help, but the cart still needed to be wiped down. A few passengers shot me sympathetic looks. “I’ll need just one second, ma'am.”

“I’m sure that can be done later.”

“It’s a safety hazard,” I said, doing my best to keep my voice professional. The airline didn’t like flight attendants to show dissatisfaction with passengers. “I’ll be with you shortly.”

The woman bristled. “I paid hundreds of dollars for this flight. If I want a coffee, I’ll get it.” Her young daughter stared resolutely out the window at the snowy landscape thousands of feet below.

One breath in, one breath out. There would be no winning with someone like this. “Of course,” I said, and reached for a second cup.

Then, a bang so loud that my ears were scalded by the cacophony of the blast. The plane lurched, and I was thrown off my feet as the passengers started to scream. The pilot’s voice came over the intercom; I could hardly hear with the ringing in my eardrums.

My terror was a blinding flash of fear and shock. I was trained for difficult landings and malfunctions, but the term “crash” was treated like a four-letter swear word.

Do not panic. This was the mantra of my Safety and Emergency Procedures course. There were twenty-one souls on board, and it was part of my job to make sure that we landed as safely as possible. Panic could come later.

My knees throbbed against the nylon carpet as I stood up. There was a stabbing pain in both ankles, and my chest still ached from the coffee. I grabbed the headrest of the nearest chair to stay upright. The cabin pressure was still stable, so the oxygen masks hadn’t dropped.

“I need everyone to stay calm,” I yelled. “Please ensure that your seat belts are buckled properly.”

The man nearest me was praying. Two women who were strangers minutes ago held hands, their bodies bent towards each other. Only one person in the last row was in the proper brace position with their hands underneath their knees and their head tucked towards their thighs. When I’d done my safety presentation at the beginning of the flight, most people had tuned out.

A shout caught my attention. It was the woman in 10C. I hadn’t fallen far from her.

“I can’t - I can’t.” She choked on the words. “My seat belt-”

Her hands were shaking so much that she couldn’t fit the metal tongue into the buckle. The two ends collided into each other as she flailed.

“Let me.” I desperately needed to get to my jumpseat. With one deft movement I clicked the belt together and cinched the webbing. With a quick glance I confirmed that her daughter’s belt was properly secured.

I didn’t look back as I walked down the aisle, taking the opportunity to verify other seat belts on the way to my seat. Over the sound of praying and crying and sobbing I could hear the woman in 10C yell something to me. It took me a few seconds to realize she had said, “Thank you.”

I delivered more emergency instructions over the intercom. My training was so ingrained that my words were automatic, and I realized part of my consciousness had drifted elsewhere. I would survive this, as I survived everything else in my life: the phone calls with doctors, the bills, the endless calls from collection agencies. I would make it to the nearest city, and it didn’t matter if I had to trudge for weeks through the snow and hills to get there. Even if my frostbitten body collapsed I would drag myself to a convenience store or tourist trap and buy a postcard for my parents. I would write something different this time: Wish I was with you. Then I would sign my name, send it in the mail, and catch a ride to the airport.

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