Balloons

 Balloons by Andrew Velox:

I opened the door to my basement and stepped down the wooden stairs, leading into the expansive room where I did my woodwork. I flicked the switch up, and immediately the room was filled with a yellowish light, complimenting the many wooden objects around the room nicely.

I came here every day after I got home from my job. To sit, to think, to work. It was my place; a room where I could go, escaping the loudness of the world, escaping almost life itself. Just me, my tools, and my bourbon.

The beginning of what was to be a boat was in the center of the room, resting on wooden workbenches. It was going to be the third boat I had built, and once again it was going to bear the same name as the others: Julia. The name of my daughter.

I didn’t want to think about her, but there was no stopping it now as the memories started to fill my mind. I walked over to a metal stool in the corner of two large work tables. I poured myself a glass of bourbon and just sat down, thinking. Thinking of her. She used to be my everything, my all. Until she was taken from me all those years ago.

I shook my head desperately, hoping to shake the thoughts, but there was no use. I took a large gulp of the warming liquid before setting the glass down on the bench. I buried my head in my hands and let the tears fall as they always did. And as the memories came back, I could see her face again…

“Daddy, daddy!” Julia called happily. “Look, balloons!” I took her by the hand, leading her to the balloon-seller.

I tugged on my hair, angry now. Frustrated. I hit the table with my fist and screamed. “It’s not fair!” I shouted to no one before breaking down in tears again. I couldn’t take it. Day after day, night after night. I wasn’t willing to let myself forget but I couldn’t live with remembering. I was torn.

“That one!” she exclaimed excitedly, pointing to a pink balloon hidden among the dozen others.

“No, no, no!” I shouted again. I stood up quickly, slamming both fists against a cupboard door. I begged my mind to think of something – anything – else, but all I could see was her face. Her beautiful, perfect face.

“Look, daddy! Isn’t it pretty?” She proudly displayed her balloon to everyone, skipping gleefully through the carnival crowds.

“Stop, stop!” But it wouldn’t. It never did. A gunshot sounded in my head.

“No, no…baby!” her precious, tiny body dropped to the ground, lifeless, a pool of blood forming under her dress.

“No, no, no…somebody help! Anyone!” I shouted as loud as I could, rushing to her side, picking up her body in my arms, pressing her against my chest. “No, no, please!” The tears were uncontrollable. “Somebody help, please!” I pleaded. I could see many people on their phones, but I knew it was too late. She was gone.

I looked up toward the sky, crying out in pain. I could see the pink balloon floating away.

And my last of her memories sailed off into the sky along with it. She was gone.

Rising by Will Tolkien:

The wind was gentle above the rooftops, and day was cool as the balloon ascended. It was free now, rising up over streets and shingles.

A park passed away beneath it, and children looked up to watch its bright color vanish over the treetops. A child much like them had held it only a short time ago, grasping the string with small fingers, careless and happy.

And then the child had let go, and the string slipped from his hand, and he had watched it tearfully go. It was inevitable. But now it was free. Up, up, away from the houses and the tangle of tree branches. Up into the open air.

An eddy of wind caught it, and the balloon danced for a moment before resuming its ascent.

A flock of birds flew past, keeping a wide berth of the round, rubber thing. They were wise from experience. They did not hinder its flight.

Now the air grew thinner as the breeze died away. A cloudless sky opened as the balloon began its final climb, arrowing upward, faster and faster.

It would soon end, this journey. It was inevitable, as the balloon began to swell in the heat of the upper air.

But it was free, for whatever limited time it had—free to rise unhindered, higher and higher.

Higher, as the sun beat down upon it.

Higher, as the earth fell away into distance and haze.

Higher, until its bright speck of color was swallowed up by the sky.

And it was gone.

Air in a Balloon by Caleb Cederak

It's hell to get old, don't let anyone tell you otherwise. My 86th birthday…what a joke. For a man that has spent years making friends with gin, liquor, tequila, bourbon and the like, lighting up more sticks full of cancer than I could think to count, here I am on my 86th, and they thought to bring balloons. Who the hell are they kidding? A few pieces of latex decorated with words and colors, full of helium so the grandkids can inhale it for a few laughs later. I suppose that's nice, let them enjoy their youth. It doesn't last forever, that's for damn sure.

I glanced back down at my cake. Had I already blown out the candles? I didn't think I had that kind of wind left in me. I looked to my sides, perhaps one of my kids did the work for me while I was busy thinking about…something. What the hell was I thinking about? Oh well, at least the kids are still there to help dear old dad. Not that they're kids anymore; my youngest is in his early fifties. It wasn't as though I'd be enjoying the cake much anyway. My sense of taste went to hell around my mid seventies and that kind of sugar would give me a headache sooner than a hammer to the temple.

I looked back at the balloons and frowned. They start out inflated, full of life, floating as high as they can. Then time gets to them, slowly, their life is depleted. The grandkids, in their search for a quick chuckle, will drain the life of a few like vampires. And even the ones they ignore will be dead soon, motionless on the floor. Give it a few days, their time will come. It's the fate of every balloon to die. It's the fate of every man to die.

I think floating is for the young at heart. Truth be told, I don't even have my heart anymore. It clocked out early on me and I got a transplant from some guy who just happened to share a blood type with me. What a waste of a fine organ on a man that has punished his own for decades without end. Not sure what my family thought they would achieve with that move. Buy dad a few more years while he keeps lighting 'em up? Sure, put a little more air in the balloon. It's coming down eventually.

Balloons by John 55555

He glanced at the clock, thrusting his hair up from his forehead with one sweaty, graphite darkened hand. Five in the morning.

He turned the clock to face the wall and returned to his work. The mysteries of graphic novel composition were many and varied, from the mystery of how the reader fills the gaps between panels to the creation of entire worlds, the art form was one of infinite difficulty and potential. He cracked his knuckles as he walked around the room a bit, stretching his cramped legs, stiff from the long hours on his drafting stool.

A burning desire had driven him these many days and nights, supplemented by coke and pizza. An idea had slowly filled his mind, a world, a reality that he had dreamed of since he was a child, creating ever changing characters and realms until it seemed as real to him as the world in which he lived. The entities wrought by his imagination seemed to strive ever forward, acting and reacting relentlessly within his mind, each collision resulting a more complex, realistic tale. The threads would split and converge, meet in time and space, sometimes traveling parallel, or in no apparent pattern only to meet in a flash of brilliance. It was a story of everything, adventure, dreams realized and dreams shattered, the thwarting and assisting of man's hopes, birth and death, love and hatred, favors returned and vengeance sought.

He took up pencil, ink and colors in turn, reproducing the images written to the deepest parts of his brain, coming up with no story lines, characters, and events as he worked, faster than he could record them. He traced the borders of each panel with a ruler, and made the regular, even curves of the thought bubbles and word balloons by hand. He carefully drew each one, and the little tails stretching down the character's to whom the thoughts or words belonged. He worked swiftly, but with a steady hand, rarely restating a line or dipping his pen into the white correction fluid. His mind was clear, his hand and eyes acted together in perfect harmony to the rhythm of his thoughts.

He knew what each character said in each balloon, in each caption and thought bubble. He paused and looked at his hands, which had done so much for him over the years, but they could not help him in this. He did not know how to write.