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The Jump by Jim Bates
I didn’t expect so many people to be standing around on the cliff overlooking the Yellow Knife River, but there were, maybe fifteen or so, mostly young folks in their twenties just hanging out, joking around and having a good time, everyone looking tan and fit. It was honestly not what I expected at all. Scared as I was, I found the festive atmosphere kind of distracting and that was probably a good thing, given my growing unease. You know what, I thought to myself, this just might work out okay.
Next to me my ten year old grandson took my hand and smiled, “Grandpa, look at all the people. This is really cool. “
He pulled me along, ever closer to the edge. I followed behind trying to calm my rapidly beating heart with little success. Was I really going to do this? Was I really going to conquer my fear of heights and jump off a thirty-foot-high cliff into a river? It looked like I was. If my wife could only see me, now.
A week earlier when I’d told Connie of my plan she’d said derisively, “So you’ve got a bucket list, Ed? First I’ve heard of it. And jumping off a cliff is the first thing on it? What, are you nuts?” She shook her head in marital disappointment. “Look, I asked you to take down the swing set in the backyard at the beginning of summer, what, three months ago? You couldn’t be bothered. Now, suddenly you’ve got this ridiculous bucket list that you’re all fired up about, and it has to happen like right now. What’s next? Parachuting out of a airplane?”
I quickly found something of interest down by my shoes and averted my gaze. How’d she know about that? It was third on the list, right after hiking the Appalachian Trial.
“How about you put ‘Take down the swing set’ on that stupid list of yours, huh? Maybe then it’ll get done.”
I tried to recover some modicum of dignity. “Look,” I said, “I’m sorry about the swing set. I really am. I’ll get on it right away.”
“Yeah, right.” I could see it in her eyes. My wife’s opinion of men, never very high even on a good day, slipped down another rung on her ladder of disappointment. “Before or after you jump off the cliff?”
I felt some clarification was in order. “You know that I’ve always been afraid of heights,” I said.
“I just want to prove to myself that I can do it, and, you know, get past my fear. Plus…well, I’m jumping into a river,” I said, for some reason thinking it would put a positive spin on things.
Wrong.
“Oh, well, a river,” she said and then let out derisive “Humph!” which rattled the crockery in the nearby kitchen cabinet, “Well, that makes it all right then.”
She stood thinking for a moment, shaking her head, dismay written all over her face. We had a good marriage and had been together over forty years, but it wasn’t out of the ordinary for me to do something to either try her patience, or disappoint her, or both. This obviously was one of those times. “Well, call Ronny at least. See if he’ll go with you. Maybe our son can help protect you from yourself.”
Whew. Off the hook.
I watched as she turned on her heel and headed for the living room, phone in hand, eager, I was sure, to call one of her girl friends to commiserate once again on the idiocy of the male species, a lifelong pastime of theirs. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time and probably not the last, either, but what could I say? At least I kept things interesting.
As if she could read my mind, Connie turned and gave me a pointed look. “What did you say?”
“Ah, nothing,” I stammered. “I…I just…” I shut up. It was disconcerting that the longer we were married, the more my wife seemed to be able to read my mind. I’d have to watch myself.
Connie jabbed a long, pointed finger in my direction, “Something about keeping things interesting? Is that what you said? Well, you’d better watch it, buddy, that’s all I’ve got to say.”
Scary. Was she becoming clairvoyant? I shuddered at the thought. That’s all I needed. I took a moment to collect myself and then called our oldest son, Ronnie, and explained what was going on. “This Saturday? Sorry, Dad, can’t go. I’m swamped at the dealership, but maybe Noah can go. I’ll put him on.”
I took care of my ten year old grandson and his two younger sisters one day a week after school. He and I loved doing things together, and after he listened to my idea about jumping off the cliff it took him all of about two seconds to say, “Yes!” And that’s what brought us to the pine forests of central Minnesota, a two-hour drive north of Minneapolis, on a warm and sunny Saturday afternoon in mid August.
A tall, well built, dreadlocked guy who looked to be in his mid-twenties broke away from the group when he saw us walking toward the cliff’s edge. He came up and smiled a greeting, “Hey there, guys. What’s going on? Here to jump off Lollipop?”
His grin was infectious, and his bright white teeth were accented by his tan face. He was wearing cut off jeans and flip flops. I tried not to stare at his bare chest and torso, rippling with muscles. He kind of looked like I imagined Hercules might have looked like.
Next to me I swear Noah whispered, “Wow.”
Lollipop? What the heck was he talking about? I coughed to clear my suddenly restricted throat and said, “Jump into the river? Yeah, I think I am.”
As if reading my mind he grinned, pointed to the cliff and said, affectionately, “Lollipop is what we call this little baby here.”
“Really?” I stammered. It was all I could think to say. Then I croaked out, “Why’s that?” And why was my mouth suddenly so dry? But he was very friendly, and I was trying to be friendly back, you know, trying to get into the spirit of things. Next to me Noah surreptitiously handed me a bottle of water which I gratefully drank from.
“We call it that because it’s such a sweet little jump.” His grin widened, “Not like that one.” He pointed over his shoulder up a long rise. Through the trees I could barely make out a high cliff about a hundred yards downstream.
“What’s that one called?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Hangman,” he said and laughed,” because the drop could kill you.”
Next to me Noah said, “Yikes,” while I wiped a bead of sweat from my brow and tried to get my racing heart under control.
Mr. Dreadlocks took a long moment looking me over before he calmly patted me on the shoulder and said, “Let’s get you started with Lollipop and save Hangman for some other day. How’s that sound?”
The answer was obvious to me. “Sounds good,” I said, trying to sound confident.
Next to me, Noel whispered, “Way to go, Grandpa,” as he took the bottle from my suddenly fidgety hands.
Mr. Dreadlocks then slapped me on the back (he really was a touchy-feely kind of guy) and turned to his friends, yelling, “Gang, we’ve got a new jumper here!”
A chorus of cheers arose from the crowd. He turned and gave me the thumbs up sign before giving me another once over, taking a bit more time appraising me.
I’m a little overweight (doughy would be putting it mildly) and nearly bald. I was wearing tan cargo shorts, a dark blue Minnesota Twins tee-shirt and a Twins baseball cap. On my feet I wore an old pair of canvas tennis shoes. In my research on cliff jumping, I’d read that they would help protect my feet from the force of the impact on the water.
“First time?” Like he even had to ask.
“Yeah,” I said, and damn it if my voice didn’t crack. I tried to recover. “It’s on my bucket list.”
“Bucket list? Really. Well, we get that a lot here,” he grinned and stuck his hand out, “Welcome. My name’s Cody.”
We shook, “Hi. I’m Ed and this is my grandson, Noah.” Noah shook Cody’s hand, but didn’t (or couldn’t) say anything, enamored as he was to the point of speechlessness by the statuesque Adonis standing before us.
“Great to meet you guys. If you want, I’ll help you out.”
“That’d be great,” I said, meaning it, my relief palpable.
For the next ten minutes or so he talked me through what he called The Jump. He was really nice about it, patient with me and informative. He seemed to understand the trepidation a sixty-five year old man might have about leaping into space.
As he talked, people kept coming up to the area and jumping off the cliff, often without any warning or fanfare whatsoever. I saw a skinny whip of a girl walk to the edge, hold her nose and step right off. I saw a guy and a woman around forty jump while holding hands. And then one of Cody’s friends, Mia, ran off the edge and did a back flip on her way down.
Watching all those jumpers served to make me both excited and nervous, a strange feeling to experience.
Finally, Cody clasped me on the shoulder in a friendly way and said, “Okay Ed, that’s about it.” He looked me over once again and nodded to himself, “I’d say you’re all set to go. How about it? Are you ready?”
I looked around. The sky was cloudless and blue. A hot sun was beating down. The scent emanating from the pine forest was heady and fragrant. The crowd nearby was boisterous and happy. I’d been coached by the inimitable Cody. I guess that I was as ready as I’d ever be.
I took a deep breath, “Sure. Yeah. I’m ready.”
“Super.” Cody turned to the crowd and yelled, “Ed’s going for it!”
There was a heartfelt cheer. “YEA!” Lot of people yelled “Atta boy” and “Way to go Ed.”
I gave my hat to Noah and stepped to the edge. The river was wide, about two-hundred feet across and even though there was a current, the surface looked calm with barely a ripple showing. The shear granite cliff I was on had formed eons ago with a natural ledge that sloped away from the edge toward the shore. All I had to do was step off and drop thirty feet straight down. I was told it would take less than two seconds before I hit the water.
I took a deep breath and exhaled. Cody had suggested not to look down, so I didn’t. I looked across the river to the pine trees and rocky cliffs on the other side. Behind me Noah whispered, “You can do it Grandpa.” I felt him take my hand and squeeze.
I turned and looked at him and he smiled an encouraging smile. I smiled back, squeezed his hand in return and let go. Let’s do this, I said to myself.
Then I turned and stepped into space.
Jim Bates loves to write. He gets his inspiration from life in a small town. This is Jim’s 11th story that has been published on the Flora Fiction website. In addition, his stories have also been published in our print edition.
Un ‘Ecrivain Français by Michael Grignon
Deep into a meditative journey, I find myself perched at a table in the back of Café Le Rêve. Tucked underneath a crimson awning, I have a partial, but adequate view of the boulevard that stretches in front of me. The restaurant is silent except for the sounds of another patron flipping through a folded paperback book. This ambiance provides an ideal office, but has yet to aid in the process.
With a sigh, I look up, signal the server and fumble through my amateur French. She confirms my request in English and grasps the neck of the empty bottles resting along the edge of the table. The green glass clanks as she removes the symbols of my ongoing ineptitude.
I have spent nearly an hour imbibing bubbly water and crunching on baguette, yet my screen remains blank. Regardless, I am convinced I am only moments from discovering it: that classic novel that has been rambling in my mind for years, but never makes it through my fingertips and onto the keys of my laptop.
Well, not yet, but this time will be different. I am at the epicenter of art and culture, ensconced in this tiny café in the City of Light. Inspiration is swirling about me. At any second it will scoop me up and carry me to literary greatness.
As I await this magical transportation, my cursor stares expectantly. With growing impatience, I begin bouncing my thumbs on my laptop. I attempt to accelerate the creative process by gazing out onto Boulevard Saint Michel. I see the Parisians coming and going as they mingle in the sunlight of an autumn afternoon. I eaves drop on their chatter, hoping to hone in on a source of inspiration. Maybe someone is sharing news of a birth, or a death; or a wedding or a divorce. Alas, the commotion blends into a francophonic hum that is useless to my English-oriented imagination.
Shifting my thought, I mentally venture to the lush lawns of Luxembourg Gardens that lie just over my shoulder. My shoes clap into the pavement as I twist through the pathways amongst the layered flowers. I gaze upon the buildings scattered about the park and wonder what great piece of history unfolded within their walls.
Then I float a mile north, where the Seine is gently wrapping itself around the island upon which Notre Dame is perched. I descend the concrete steps toward the waterway. The current gently raps against the enclosed banks as I stroll alongside the majestic river.
Next, I move my mind in the opposite direction. Approaching from the Champ de Mars, I see Mr. Eiffel’s monument presenting itself in front of me. The beams and cross braces are a tapestry of metallic artwork. The tower is a testament to Third Republic ingenuity and beauty.
As I mentally meander around the city, I slowly feel an idea unfolding: “Paris in the fall.” That could be it. My fingers crash into the keyboard:
After a stifling summer, Paris reawakens to the refreshing breezes of September. With the departure of tourists ‘on holiday’, commuters find renewed comfort on their metro journeys. The meddlesome chiming from the bicycle lane on the boulevards subsides. In the Latin Quarter the aroma of coffee wafts about the cafés as university students share their schedules. The first leaves of autumn are turning yellow and beginning to float in delicate descent onto the cobbled byways of Père-Lachaise.
“Here you are. Something else?” the server places a basket in front of me, disrupting my flow.
We seem to be in an unspoken contest to see who gets to practice their foreign language. Never one to relent, I assure her, in my makeshift French, that I have what I need and thank her for the continued attention. She emits a sigh of exasperation and trudges away.
Momentarily distracted, I begin to think of the accolades awaiting the completion of my grand oeuvre. This work will be the one that vaults me into prominence and draw comparisons to those famous American ex-pats of a century ago. I continue to muse: like them, I will live off the royalties, sit in bistros and carouse in the shadows, my tales creating vicarious bliss for those who have shared my dream but have never dared to act.
I smile in anticipation of future celebrity, then force myself to re-focus on the task at hand. My chair creaks as I lean back and return to my screen. In a display of self-confidence, I raise my arms and place my hands behind my head, triumphantly reviewing my initial paragraph. With a flash of inspiration, I rock forward, ready to launch back into my great adventure.
Then, just as my fingers are about to make their descent onto the keyboard, I hear a faint shuffling and feel a tap on my arm. A new, external voice softly intones “Can you pick me up from school tomorrow?”
I jolt before responding, then nod to confirm the pickup.
With my mental voyage now interrupted beyond repair, I open my eyes onto my suburban backyard in upstate New York and return to reality: I am not a gifted writer one novel away from being discovered. I am a middle-aged social worker who thinks he can write, speaks a little French and has read too much Hemingway.
Michael Grignon is an amateur writer. He has a day job, but, after hours, enjoys putting words together and trying to create something meaningful out of them.
we may be landscape by Corbett Buchley
we may be landscape
a pastiche of neighborhood and terrain
but do you see the graves
they are hidden and not hidden
in the folds of hills in the patchwork lines
we have latticed over earth
a lot goes into living
we toil like worms, like salmon
behind plows, in boats
sleek nervous carnivores
staying in motion
we visit the ocean and take in shows
with their orchestration of mad pastel lights
we mount Ferris wheels
as if duty bound to spend
ourselves out like uncoiled fence wire
unspooling between field and road
unspooling as if racing for the end of boundaries
unspooling until we arrive in the next frame over
unspooling into the grave
so neatly lined up
that we can miss them
that we can pass by
without remembering the dead
Corbett Buchly has published more than 80 poems in various journals, including, Rio Grande Review, Plainsongs, and Barrow Street. He is an alumnus of Texas Christian University and the University of Southern California.
Starless Skies by Bethany Webb
“You know, there’s a star in the sky for every wish on the ground,” her grandmother whispered, her wink not visible by the eye, but easy to hear from her voice.
Alesia and her grandmother lay in the grass of her parent’s pasture, looking up at the sky dotted with stars. Alesia smiled as she noticed that she could see her breath, confirming that winter had finally come. Behind her she could hear one of her parent’s goats chewing on his grassy dinner. The crisp, winter air was filled with the smell of cooking meat as her sister began making dinner, the door to the kitchen open so she didn’t get too hot. Alesia was supposed to be inside helping her sister, but she’d been told she was a bit more of a bother than a help, so she’d been released from duty.
“Which one is meant for me?” she asked, tracing the constellations with her eyes.
“Well, I don’t think anyone can know for sure which one is theirs. I don’t think most people even know what their true wish is,” her grandmother answered.
“Do you know what your true wish is?”
“Oh, yes, my wish was granted long ago, but at the time, I didn’t realize it was what I truly wanted. In truth, it was what I desperately needed.”
“What was it?”
“That is a story for another time, young one. A story that I’m sure you’ll learn of soon enough, but for now, we should be getting back to the house. I’m sure that dinner’s almost ready,” her grandmother said, moving to stand up.
Alesia nodded. She stood, the cold air making her joints slower. She looked towards the mountains that surrounded their valley home. The small village they lived near resided in what Alesia thought was a mountain bowl; in reality, the mountains simply formed a circle, almost completely enclosing the people who lived there in. A few of the mountain tops were already capped with snow, but it had yet to reach the valley. The pastures were still dotted with the flowers that always grew during the fall, though they would soon die with the cold.
She took one last look at the stars, again wondering which one was meant for her, before following her grandmother towards their cabin.
Alesia sighed as she set down her paintbrush, staring at the canvas in front of her. It wasn’t turning out how she saw it in her head, though everyone she had talked to had said they loved it. She stood, setting her pallet and brush on the table before making her way across her apartment.
There wasn’t much in her apartment, as she had been told that minimalism was best for where she lived. Her living room consisted of a television set and a couch. In her opinion, there was a lot of empty space in the room, but she had to admit it had a clean feeling to it, as well. Her bedroom only had a bed, and her kitchen was the most cluttered part of her home, as she had filled it with all the supplies she could ever need for her love of baking. Her walls, however, were filled with paintings. Most of them depicted stars, though there were a few family portraits. She frowned as she thought about how long it had been since she had visited her family.
She made her way to her balcony, sliding the door open and breathing in the crisp wintry air, tainted with the smell of exhaust. The sound of cars braking and honking enveloped her, along with the occasional shouting from some of the people still walking at that time of night. She looked down to find the streets as they almost always were: filled with traffic. The roofs were covered in snow, and it was cold enough that Alesia could see her own breath.
She looked up, thinking of her grandmother and the starry skies that they had so often gazed at while lying in the grassy pasture when Alesia was younger. Sometimes they had stayed out there for hours, and there had been a few times when Alesia had fallen asleep, staying outside for the whole night. Her parents had never really minded her love of the stars, so long as she had finished her responsibilities before she went outside to look at them. Almost every time she went outside to see them, her grandmother had been there, telling her the stories that had shaped the stars.
Those were some of her best childhood memories, but when she looked up now, all she saw were starless skies.
Bethany Webb is a student with a love of travel, art, and writing. Bethany has previously published non-fiction in the Behemoth and the Blue Marble Review.
Symphony of Spring by Jim Bates
The sun glows mellow on a warming day
A light breeze from the south caresses cattails
Down near the pond songs fill the air
Black birds chiming a chorus of red wings
Nearby a babbling stream of snow melt rushing
A melody of life, a symphony of spring.
Jim Bates is an award-winning author who lives in a small town in Minnesota. He has authored 32 books, including poetry, flash fiction, short story collections, novellas, and novels, which are available through traditional outlets.
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