“The Cornflake Angel”

Elia sat in his blue velvet Victorian armchair in silence. The chair’s opulent vintage flair stood in contrast to the rest of the living room which was ordinary and immaculate. It faced toward the grand bay window pouring in the natural light of the dawn from the front of his home. But there was a distance. A fifteen foot adequately lit void separating the chair from the glass pane across the living room. In fact, the armchair was positioned directly below a rectangular skylight with a sliver of a crack running diagonally across. A single thin imperfection across a clear blue sky. It was there when he bought the house, and although that fracture bothered him to near insanity, he never fixed it.

Nevertheless, Elia could look up and see the universe above, wondering what was really going on up there. It could be that he felt closer to God while he spooned breakfast cereal into his mouth. That would be a sensible thought. Except for the fact that Elia does not believe in any god. Or nice taxi drivers. Or grimy floors. Or people who chew with their mouths open. God, not those derelicts.

He never sat on the pristine beige leather couch or outside on his spotless outdoor patio. Everything spotless; nothing out of the ordinary. The only exception: a sea of blue velvet in the middle of an American middle class desert. Elia waded into the comfort of his chair and contemplated the day’s tasks.

Finish my cornflakes, rinse the bowl, drive to work, decide on new menu fonts, fire Jacob for insubordination, fill out expense reports, go home at 5pm, read a book, eat dinner, brush teeth, change into my Tuesday pajamas and—wait.

As the mid-morning sun rose and filtered through the skylight, Elia noticed something peculiar. There was an angel in his cereal. Not like the typical image of an angel descending from heaven and oil paints, but one constructed of soggy cornflakes and 2% milk. It was as if the cereal remnants formed the slight body and angelic wings, completed with a minuscule halo. Elia gaped in great confusion as a singular ray of sun illuminated the tiny tableau.

“What on earth?”

Once Elia’s mind caught up with his brain, he then thought it ridiculous to be astonished in the first place. Elia had no idea why a cornflake angel would have such a religious effect on him. All at once, this image was tossed from his priorities as he stirred the bowl in attempt to disturb the miniature figure in his hands.

“Hold on a second,” Elia tried to swirl the cereal again. “What the hell?” And again, once more. The angel kept intact, held together by nothing but corn and sugar.

Then—it started.

The cherry hardwood floors became wobbly and unstable as if the planks of wood were crumbling beneath Elia’s velvet armchair. To a greater effect, the usually undetectable pull of gravity suddenly became—detectable. Elia looked down. He was hovering three inches above the ground.

His beloved chair shook softly in a low murmur as it seemed to have a mind of its own. Cereal bowl still in hand, Elia only had mere seconds to look down as he ascended inch by inch. Foot by foot.

CRASH.

Swirls of light blues, pinks, and wisps of white mingled around him. Flumes of air glided against his face until the atmosphere surrounded him in an invisible blanket. Translucent shards of glass gave way beneath him. At first, he didn’t know what the fragments were. He was moving so fast, he could barely see his own hands. Then, Elia realized.  

He had collided through his living room skylight.

Still seated in his favorite blue velvet chair, he ascended above familiar buildings and crisp emerald lawns over peaks of ordinary houses. After the initial shock wore off, Elia had ample time to appreciate his conquest into the sky. It was a wistful dream that warranted a lasting, lingering look. His ascent slowed to a steady pace as he consumed the sight of the lives below, getting ready for the day’s normalcy. He loathed it. He was it. He was in the center of a storm he did not want to be part of. Well, not anymore.

Elia continued up, up, and up until the sky darkened, and the sky blues and pinks transformed into blackened oil slicks. He marveled at the burning stars dotting the pitch black canvas around him. Each one more interesting than anything he had ever encountered in forty-five years of life. However, every star gained a blistering intensity as Elia brushed past in orbit continuing his upward flight.

Will I ever return? he wondered.

All in a frantic instant, the once rushing gusts of air turned sparse like sand wasting away through cracked hands. Elia couldn’t breathe. His hands grasped for his throat while he climbed through outer space. An astronaut without a rocket ship. The journey had become seemingly endless, boring, and quite literally unbearable. Elia wanted nothing more than to escape the surreal fantasy turned into a passing nightmare.

Will I die? Is this real? Am I dreaming? So many questions with no answers in reach. A swift coldness ran through his body, partly due to the freezing temperatures of outer space, but mostly because he was dying. Elia’s brain languished in a sedated state as his entire being weakened. In spite of the age old saying, Elia’s life did not flash before his eyes.

Clutching onto consciousness, he remembered a single moment.

It was at a Christmas party. He was twenty-two years old. At this point, Elia was living on his own but not in the circumstances he had expected. Just a couple years prior, he was planning to travel the world from the heights of society in France to the smallest towns in India. A non-believer in the “corporate system of university” as he called it, Elia thought it best to learn from worldly experience, new people, and unfamiliar foods. Although the latter might have led to dietary difficulties, the other aspects far outweighed the possible discomfort. It was an impossibly exciting prospect for Elia. To see the far reaches of the planet and inhale life to its most complete potential. To be expelled from the dregs of an ordinary existence and escape to new worlds, each one more revealing than the next. It was his dream. But it would have to remain dormant for the foreseeable future.

The party was glowing and practically brimming with chatter and the clinking of champagne glasses. The warm, spiced smell of Christmas dishes permeated through every inch of the house. Elia was already quite full of the drink as it neared time for dinner, and yet he couldn’t seem to have enough. A formidable restitution, his mother called it. Or as Elia simply put it—good genes. The gathering was filled with people. Just people. Not friends, not relatives, and not anybody that Elia knew all that well. He had been dragged to this party by a work acquaintance he had just met after moving to a quaint suburb in Oregon. The work acquaintance took bittersweet pity on Elia since he had just relocated to a strange, new place without any friends or family to celebrate with during the holiday season. Despite this, Elia would have been just fine without having to attend a Christmas party with multitudes of people he didn’t know. He would have rather stayed in his rat-trap filled studio apartment. It’s true he would have felt a bit lonely, but at least it would have been loneliness on his own and not the odd feeling of isolation while surrounded by an unfamiliar lot. Elia could have dealt with it for the time being while saving money for his planned adventures. Against his better judgement, he followed the nagging voice in his head (and not just his work acquaintance’s) that he should at least try to meet others. And so he did.

Dinner was served and more drinks were poured, much to Elia’s now-stumbling delight. As he gnawed on browned turkey legs and gulped down bitter mulled wine, he chatted with some of the other guests. They talked about houses, economic markets, cute children, ugly children, lawn care, light agreeable politics, and careers which were practical although a bit dull-sounding. These topics of conversation could be incredibly fascinating to some and utterly mundane to others. Elia was very much a part of the latter. And as he continued to flit from chat to chat, nothing really interested him. Nothing that could pull him up from heavy thoughts. Something else surfaced though. A sudden pit of worry in his stomach. All of these people were nice enough, gracious enough, well-respected enough. And yet, it still wasn’t enough for Elia. He pined for the complete consumption of life, an adventure greater than what was set before him by circumstance. But the question was—would it ever be enough?

Another instinct emerged from the depths of that growing pit of concern.

He wanted to run.

It would be easy enough. He had two working legs, a beating heart, and enough alcohol in his system to do the outrageously impulsive. But this wasn’t outrageously impulsive. Elia just needed to get away for a moment.

To run.

And in a flash, he was off. Through the hallway and out the door, past flustered faces and an overdone turkey. He kept running as his feet touched the cool black pavement underneath. The chilled air caused his hair to stand up on edge and skin to tingle with the sudden change of temperature. The frigid wind whipped against his face as he continued to sprint down the street with an undeniable force. And for a moment, Elia felt invincible. He let the world fall away and his doubtful thoughts slip into nothingness. Nothing could stop him.

But invincibility is a false attribute. A momentarily illusion which burns out as quickly as it arrives. Gradually, Elia’s confident, fast stride transformed into an overwrought, flailing mess. And so, the blistering comet of indestructibility faded into a meager speck of dust.

As decades passed, the lines in his face deepened, his joints groaned and weakened, and his life morphed into an existence he did not expect. Still, it was a life, and he was acutely aware of how lucky he was to have it, which is why he kept it in such a relentlessly pristine condition. But perfection is never what it seems. Just another passing illusion, and Elia was only now starting to realize this.

Now, Elia in his coveted blue velvet armchair really did have the world disappear around him. No cardiovascular exercise needed. The only similar trait was that he could not catch his breath during either experience. His upward flight seemed never-ending until the chair slowed to a pace, and then halted all at once. For a small second, Elia stopped clutching the arms of the chair and forgot that his oxygen supply was at a near fatal point. He looked around at where he was. In the middle of space. The complete calm of silence matched with the beauty of brightly burning stars. An otherworldly paradise.

SWOOSH.

And in a moment just as swift as his disappearance from the Christmas party, the paradise was soon over. He was heading back down to earth.

As Elia’s descent from the darkened sky commenced, he thought back to his regrets. The desires and former wishes which felt unfulfilled and distant as he grew into middle age. He remembered the great hope and imminent fear he experienced during that Christmas party. Followed by his own panic-induced drunken marathon, cutting his time at the get-together short. The air soared past his skin, chilling his bones to their core. Gravity seemed to be taking its course and dragging Elia along for the ride. Star after star, planet after planet, asteroid after asteroid. The fall returning to the ground was definitely a swift one. He didn’t even have time to consider what the inevitable impact would have in store for him.

Interestingly enough, when the legs of his armchair met the hard earth, it was gentle and soft as if he were a feather floating to the ground from an insurmountable height. Elia sat in sheer disbelief. So many questions rambling about his head. His face burned hot from the zero gravity trip. At least he could breathe again. That was a good sign.

Suddenly, something dawned upon him. A nostalgic new hope. A strong conviction. A burgeoning desire that came from the cornflake angel and his ascent into the sky. The great freedom he felt since the day he ran from the dreaded Christmas party returned. A moment of liberation and promise rising from the dead.

And Elia thought the day he found his perfect armchair was special.

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