SOMETIME during the night I lost the weight at the end of my string. I wonder how high I can climb before I pop.


I float up into the trees. I never before saw that the trees were sad. They can’t hide it in the moonlight. They droop, and they droop determinately. I think there was once a breeze—one hell of a gust—that threw their arms upwards into the brilliant blue sky, that threw their leaves and seeds into lively dances at high vistas before lowering them gently into gardens. But that breeze left as it only could. The arms fell flaccid, awaiting that gale to cycle back, and it never did. Other breezes may have ruffled the leaves and the trees may have allowed themselves to sway—but it was never the same. They droop lower every day. I soar above them.


It's strange to find that the higher I climb, the smaller the moon looks. And yet, it shines brighter. It is boastful in its elusiveness. But I do not climb for the moon. I would be scared if I were to touch it. No, I climb to reach the other end of the darkness. The moon is no end.


The night slumbers on. The moon is low in the sky. Could I wave to the moon as I pass it by, I would flash also a kindly smile and turn away, never to reacquaint myself.


I submerge into darkness. At these heights, the stars no longer twinkle, but sit as distant, static streetlights I hope to soon pass under on my way to the other side. The reds, the blues, the yellows, the whites, the dwarves, the giants. I might even pass a black hole, the pinnacle of darkness.


Such extraordinary heights to be conquered! I had lost the weight at the end of my string. I wonder how high I can climb before I—

B. Bisaillon is an emerging writer from the Arizona valley. A student of the social and behavioral sciences, Bisaillon seeks to explore conditions and attitudes of the contemporary American in fiction, nonfiction, and verse. He has forthcoming work to be published at The Chaffey Review and Terra Firma Magazine.

A Balloon

B. Bisaillon



March 2016

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Literary Juice