Balloons cont.
By: Eja Sharma
So here was a girl who was special for her balloons, and a collection of balloons that were special for their girl. The day of the first balloon, a sultry summer afternoon, spent at a nameless carnival on the edge of a bustling city. Round and slightly misshapen and as pink as the bit of cotton candy lodged between her teeth. String found palm and for the first time the girl realized the nature of our world.
There was a rainy autumn day months later, the kind spent watching two drops of water race on a window and betting which would spill onto the sill first. That was the day of the second balloon, this one a twinning shade to the pumpkins laying on the floor to be carved. It slipped into the nook between finger and thumb, right alongside its like and there started the weight. It was so light that the girl couldn’t feel it. Thereafter she wouldn’t notice.
Months turned to years and the girl’s collection grew with her. A yellow balloon the day she clambered up the steps of a school bus for the first time. Purple for the bruise acquired after a fall from an oak tree. Red as the bows worn in her hair for every picture day. Green like the stems of wild lilies received with a mumbled question from a shy boy with a kind smile. Blue as the cap thrown high as she screamed for freedom.
Fist no longer small, woman no longer girl, weight no longer light. She clutched the many strings mindlessly, a mass of colour flowing behind her with every step. Years turned to decades and still her collection grew. Grand it became and the weight grand as well. Though she couldn’t feel it. Yet.
At first, much like the weight, it went unnoticed. So many balloons to keep track of, you can’t blame an old woman for losing one here and there.
Red went first. Not first, but first of those gone to be missed. It was winter and between the shock of scalding cocoa on her tongue to the cautious next sip picture days were...well they weren’t quite erased, not yet, but there was a smudge over the memory, a cramped finger that loosened her grip on the string. Blue went next, yellow soon after. Blurs and streaks and a sweaty palm.
Purple, green. Gone, gone. The harder she tried to hold them the faster they slipped away and she could only watch as they floated anywhere but back where they belonged. It rained again the day that orange escaped her grasp.
Eventually there was only one balloon that remained, round and slightly misshapen and pink as a bit of cotton candy. It was all she could do to hold on, to not let go. She could feel it now, the weight. Or moreso the absence of it. She once thought her balloons were held in her palm but with them gone she knew this to be false. Something inside had broken, letting the tethers tied with delicate fingers go.
She became careful. And still, walking down the pier one day, always focused on the feeling of string in palm but not on the crooked nail hammered into the railing. She jumped, not at the sound of latex snapping but at the vast emptiness that befell her in the aftermath.
You see, there was once a girl who collected balloons. Special for the collection, she was.
Now, you could walk around the city and see a flash of red like bows, or a gleam of orange like pumpkins, floating in the sky, defying the very nature of our world.
And the girl? Well the girl was special for the balloons floating through clouds and between stars. Now she was nothing but another old woman, staring out the window, trying to catch a glimpse of a forgotten life, forever flexing wrinkled fingers around invisible strings, grasping out for stolen memories.
There was a rainy autumn day months later, the kind spent watching two drops of water race on a window and betting which would spill onto the sill first. That was the day of the second balloon, this one a twinning shade to the pumpkins laying on the floor to be carved. It slipped into the nook between finger and thumb, right alongside its like and there started the weight. It was so light that the girl couldn’t feel it. Thereafter she wouldn’t notice.
Months turned to years and the girl’s collection grew with her. A yellow balloon the day she clambered up the steps of a school bus for the first time. Purple for the bruise acquired after a fall from an oak tree. Red as the bows worn in her hair for every picture day. Green like the stems of wild lilies received with a mumbled question from a shy boy with a kind smile. Blue as the cap thrown high as she screamed for freedom.
Fist no longer small, woman no longer girl, weight no longer light. She clutched the many strings mindlessly, a mass of colour flowing behind her with every step. Years turned to decades and still her collection grew. Grand it became and the weight grand as well. Though she couldn’t feel it. Yet.
At first, much like the weight, it went unnoticed. So many balloons to keep track of, you can’t blame an old woman for losing one here and there.
Red went first. Not first, but first of those gone to be missed. It was winter and between the shock of scalding cocoa on her tongue to the cautious next sip picture days were...well they weren’t quite erased, not yet, but there was a smudge over the memory, a cramped finger that loosened her grip on the string. Blue went next, yellow soon after. Blurs and streaks and a sweaty palm.
Purple, green. Gone, gone. The harder she tried to hold them the faster they slipped away and she could only watch as they floated anywhere but back where they belonged. It rained again the day that orange escaped her grasp.
Eventually there was only one balloon that remained, round and slightly misshapen and pink as a bit of cotton candy. It was all she could do to hold on, to not let go. She could feel it now, the weight. Or moreso the absence of it. She once thought her balloons were held in her palm but with them gone she knew this to be false. Something inside had broken, letting the tethers tied with delicate fingers go.
She became careful. And still, walking down the pier one day, always focused on the feeling of string in palm but not on the crooked nail hammered into the railing. She jumped, not at the sound of latex snapping but at the vast emptiness that befell her in the aftermath.
You see, there was once a girl who collected balloons. Special for the collection, she was.
Now, you could walk around the city and see a flash of red like bows, or a gleam of orange like pumpkins, floating in the sky, defying the very nature of our world.
And the girl? Well the girl was special for the balloons floating through clouds and between stars. Now she was nothing but another old woman, staring out the window, trying to catch a glimpse of a forgotten life, forever flexing wrinkled fingers around invisible strings, grasping out for stolen memories.
By: Lucy Sinclair cont.
“My name’s Chrysanthemum,” I whispered under my breath.
I looked back at the screen. The desolate landscape of the moon looked back at me. It was still and serene, the blackboard of a sky dotted with stars like chalk.
“Zip me up, will you?” Sammy gestured at the back of his spacesuit. I sighed and pulled up the zipper.
Sammy was right to have other things on his mind. Man was going out to step on the moon for the first time in over one hundred years and he was going to be the one going out.
What about me, you ask? I’m just the engineer. I wouldn’t have come if the engine hadn’t been acting a little strange a few months before liftoff.
“Alright there, Chrissy?” Sammy asked, sniffing. I often wondered if he thought he was Neil Armstrong, with his old fashioned attitude and stiff upper lip.
“Fine,” I mumbled, “but there’s something wrong with the rocks.”
“Hm?”
“Never mind.”
“That’s right,” Sammy scolded, patting me on the head like a dog, “This is my big moment, Chrissy! I won’t have anything spoil it.” I bit my lip and studied the screen furiously. I had to catch the mistake before he got out, I had to.
“Just a few more double checks…” Sammy kept muttering to himself, “Just a few more…”
I scrutinized every rock, every twitch on the surface. But there was nothing to see. Nothing moved, no aliens dropped out of the sky.
I didn’t even know what I was looking for. Maybe Sammy’s right. Maybe there are more important things to worry about than the squeezing in my gut insisting to look at the rocks.
I turned away, returning Sammy’s eager smile reluctantly.
“You’re lucky to be here, Chrissy,” he said, turning up his chin like he was posing for a picture, “To witness such a moment is to be a part of history!”
“Well, I built your spaceship,” I said to myself, “I was a part of this mission five years before you were.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
There was a crackling and the scene on the screen cut out and switched to a man with serious eyebrows and an even more serious suit. Sammy gasped and tried to whip off his helmet but just ended up looking as though he was saluting.
“Mister President, sir!” he breathed.
“Stand down, Mister Richards,” the President told him. Sammy hesitated and I thought with a smirk that he was always at attention, whether he was with the President or not.
“This is a momentous occasion for all of America,” the man on the screen announced. I saw his eyes flick to the side and I realized he was reading from a teleprompter.
“With the war against Canada raging, we must stand vigilant and stay one step ahead,” the President told Sammy, “This, I believe, is the perfect way to do so.”
Sammy looked like he was about to cry. I decided not to bring up the teleprompter.
“Congratulations, Sam Richards,” the President said in a practised voice. I was positive he wouldn’t have known Sammy’s name if it hadn’t been on a screen beside him. “You take America with you.”
The screen cut back to the surface of the moon. Sammy looked awestruck.
“The President…” he said breathlessly. After a few more moments gawking at the screen, he straightened himself up and nodded stiffly at me.
“You heard what he said,” he sniffed, “I must go out in the name of my country.”
“Being from Canada,” I allowed myself to mumble, “I wouldn’t know which country you’re going out as.” For one horrible moment, I could have sworn Sammy’s eye flickered to me as though he was actually listening. But he looked back towards the door before I could be sure.
“Thank you for your service, Chrissy.”
“Chrysanthemum.”
“Whatever,” he snapped impatiently. Sammy took a deep breath. “Mission Control? Requesting permission to exit the capsule. Is everything alright out there?”
There was a pause before his communicator crackled on. “Everything is a-okay. You are clear for EVA activity, Richards.”
“Copy that,” Sammy said seriously, with a huge smile that didn’t match his voice, “See you on the other side.”
I watched Sammy open the door slowly and slide out onto the surface.
Suddenly, I realized what was wrong.
I froze. No, it couldn’t be.
“Sammy!” I was shouting for the first time I could remember, screaming into my comm. “SAMMY! IT’S NOT THE MOON!” I wrenched open the door. “THE GRAVITY, SAMMY! IT’S NOT—“
As soon as I stepped out, two strong hands gripped me and I was shoved backwards to the ground. I hit my head on the spaceship, a dull, sickening pain. I couldn’t see straight.
But what I did see terrified me.
“Chrysanthemum Levi.” I knew that voice. I swivelled around as best I could to see the President walking towards me. He was looking at a file and tutting. “Canadian, I see.” He snapped the document closed, making everyone jump.
“No doubt a spy for the army,” he hissed.
“A-a spy?” I saw Sammy curled in the corner, tear-stained and bleeding. “Chrissy’s a spy?” I glared at the President.
“Why would I tell you if I was?” I muttered. The President laughed.
“You were very clever to crack our little puzzle,” he chuckled, “What was the flaw? We’ll be sure to correct it for our, um,” The President coughed. “Future astronauts.”
I decided I had nothing more to lose. “The gravity,” I explained, “There should have been some moon dust floating above the surface because the gravity is so low.”
“Ah, right you are,” he growled, “We will have to attend to that on our moon set.” He gestured to the right and I got my first real chance to look at the room.
It was a huge white room, with studio lights all around. It reminded me of a movie set. To one side, I saw the desk where the President had spoken on the screen. To another, I saw the moon’s surface. Or what we had thought was the moon’s surface.
“So this is how you catch spies,” I spat, “Set up a fake space program and invite them to be captured?”
“Exactly.” When the President smiled it looked like he had fangs.
“Careful, Mister President,” I warned through gritted teeth, “The most dangerous people are the ones who think they’re right.” A dark shadow fell over the President’s face.
“Richards!” He turned suddenly on Sammy who was scuttling away. “You don’t have white skin.”
“No sir…?”
“Then you are not American.” The President. I had seen that kind of smile before on madmen.
“Kill them both. Leave no evidence.” Sammy was screaming. I might have been screaming too but I couldn’t tell.
I tried to fight back. Tried to remember my training. But it all happened so fast. I lost track of the arms holding me.
And before I knew it, I was weightless. Nothing. As empty as the surface of the moon.
I looked back at the screen. The desolate landscape of the moon looked back at me. It was still and serene, the blackboard of a sky dotted with stars like chalk.
“Zip me up, will you?” Sammy gestured at the back of his spacesuit. I sighed and pulled up the zipper.
Sammy was right to have other things on his mind. Man was going out to step on the moon for the first time in over one hundred years and he was going to be the one going out.
What about me, you ask? I’m just the engineer. I wouldn’t have come if the engine hadn’t been acting a little strange a few months before liftoff.
“Alright there, Chrissy?” Sammy asked, sniffing. I often wondered if he thought he was Neil Armstrong, with his old fashioned attitude and stiff upper lip.
“Fine,” I mumbled, “but there’s something wrong with the rocks.”
“Hm?”
“Never mind.”
“That’s right,” Sammy scolded, patting me on the head like a dog, “This is my big moment, Chrissy! I won’t have anything spoil it.” I bit my lip and studied the screen furiously. I had to catch the mistake before he got out, I had to.
“Just a few more double checks…” Sammy kept muttering to himself, “Just a few more…”
I scrutinized every rock, every twitch on the surface. But there was nothing to see. Nothing moved, no aliens dropped out of the sky.
I didn’t even know what I was looking for. Maybe Sammy’s right. Maybe there are more important things to worry about than the squeezing in my gut insisting to look at the rocks.
I turned away, returning Sammy’s eager smile reluctantly.
“You’re lucky to be here, Chrissy,” he said, turning up his chin like he was posing for a picture, “To witness such a moment is to be a part of history!”
“Well, I built your spaceship,” I said to myself, “I was a part of this mission five years before you were.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
There was a crackling and the scene on the screen cut out and switched to a man with serious eyebrows and an even more serious suit. Sammy gasped and tried to whip off his helmet but just ended up looking as though he was saluting.
“Mister President, sir!” he breathed.
“Stand down, Mister Richards,” the President told him. Sammy hesitated and I thought with a smirk that he was always at attention, whether he was with the President or not.
“This is a momentous occasion for all of America,” the man on the screen announced. I saw his eyes flick to the side and I realized he was reading from a teleprompter.
“With the war against Canada raging, we must stand vigilant and stay one step ahead,” the President told Sammy, “This, I believe, is the perfect way to do so.”
Sammy looked like he was about to cry. I decided not to bring up the teleprompter.
“Congratulations, Sam Richards,” the President said in a practised voice. I was positive he wouldn’t have known Sammy’s name if it hadn’t been on a screen beside him. “You take America with you.”
The screen cut back to the surface of the moon. Sammy looked awestruck.
“The President…” he said breathlessly. After a few more moments gawking at the screen, he straightened himself up and nodded stiffly at me.
“You heard what he said,” he sniffed, “I must go out in the name of my country.”
“Being from Canada,” I allowed myself to mumble, “I wouldn’t know which country you’re going out as.” For one horrible moment, I could have sworn Sammy’s eye flickered to me as though he was actually listening. But he looked back towards the door before I could be sure.
“Thank you for your service, Chrissy.”
“Chrysanthemum.”
“Whatever,” he snapped impatiently. Sammy took a deep breath. “Mission Control? Requesting permission to exit the capsule. Is everything alright out there?”
There was a pause before his communicator crackled on. “Everything is a-okay. You are clear for EVA activity, Richards.”
“Copy that,” Sammy said seriously, with a huge smile that didn’t match his voice, “See you on the other side.”
I watched Sammy open the door slowly and slide out onto the surface.
Suddenly, I realized what was wrong.
I froze. No, it couldn’t be.
“Sammy!” I was shouting for the first time I could remember, screaming into my comm. “SAMMY! IT’S NOT THE MOON!” I wrenched open the door. “THE GRAVITY, SAMMY! IT’S NOT—“
As soon as I stepped out, two strong hands gripped me and I was shoved backwards to the ground. I hit my head on the spaceship, a dull, sickening pain. I couldn’t see straight.
But what I did see terrified me.
“Chrysanthemum Levi.” I knew that voice. I swivelled around as best I could to see the President walking towards me. He was looking at a file and tutting. “Canadian, I see.” He snapped the document closed, making everyone jump.
“No doubt a spy for the army,” he hissed.
“A-a spy?” I saw Sammy curled in the corner, tear-stained and bleeding. “Chrissy’s a spy?” I glared at the President.
“Why would I tell you if I was?” I muttered. The President laughed.
“You were very clever to crack our little puzzle,” he chuckled, “What was the flaw? We’ll be sure to correct it for our, um,” The President coughed. “Future astronauts.”
I decided I had nothing more to lose. “The gravity,” I explained, “There should have been some moon dust floating above the surface because the gravity is so low.”
“Ah, right you are,” he growled, “We will have to attend to that on our moon set.” He gestured to the right and I got my first real chance to look at the room.
It was a huge white room, with studio lights all around. It reminded me of a movie set. To one side, I saw the desk where the President had spoken on the screen. To another, I saw the moon’s surface. Or what we had thought was the moon’s surface.
“So this is how you catch spies,” I spat, “Set up a fake space program and invite them to be captured?”
“Exactly.” When the President smiled it looked like he had fangs.
“Careful, Mister President,” I warned through gritted teeth, “The most dangerous people are the ones who think they’re right.” A dark shadow fell over the President’s face.
“Richards!” He turned suddenly on Sammy who was scuttling away. “You don’t have white skin.”
“No sir…?”
“Then you are not American.” The President. I had seen that kind of smile before on madmen.
“Kill them both. Leave no evidence.” Sammy was screaming. I might have been screaming too but I couldn’t tell.
I tried to fight back. Tried to remember my training. But it all happened so fast. I lost track of the arms holding me.
And before I knew it, I was weightless. Nothing. As empty as the surface of the moon.