He looks at the ground. While reading the newspaper, he wasn’t watching where he was going. He almost steps on broken glass. Just like a regular balloon, Johnny Balloon can easily be popped. One little prick will cause his balloon body to explode.
Scanning the ground, there are several broken beer bottles all around him. Slivers of glass cover the sidewalk and the street on both sides. Johnny folds up the newspaper and puts it in his bag, then carefully backs away. He’d rather play it safe and take the long way to the bank than try to tiptoe through the shards of glass.
But as he walks backward, he hears a clink as he kicks some glass with the back of his heel. When he turns around, he realizes there are more broken bottles behind him as well. He wonders how he got through all of that without popping. He must have accidentally stepped in all the right places without paying any attention.
“It must be my lucky day,” he says.
But then he realizes he’s trapped within the circle of glass. He squeak-rubs his forehead, contemplating his best course of action. One of the problems with getting rid of the gravity devices that were attached to his feet is that they used to act as protective footwear. Before, he could have walked over this glass with no worry. Now, it’s not so easy to walk safely through the streets.
Examining carefully, he realizes he’s going to have to jump over it. Safety is only five feet away. He believes he can make it, even if he won’t get much of a running start.
He bends his knees, flexing his rubber legs with a squeak-squeak .
“Come on, Johnny Balloon,” he tells himself. “You can do it.”
Then he jumps, but with the weight of the cinder block in his arms he doesn’t go very far.
“You can’t do it,” he cries, in midair.
As he watches his feet drop toward a sharp blade of glass, Johnny drops the cinder block. With the loss of weight, his body flies away from the ground, spinning toward the sky. Once he’s three stories up, his balloon string goes taut and ceases his ascent. He rolls over in the air and looks down at the people walking by on the street below. None of them seem to notice that he’s floating above them. None of them offer to help him out.
“No problem,” he says. “I’ve prepared for this…”
He swims through the air and grabs the string below him. This is something he’s practiced in his apartment several times before.
“All I have to do is climb down…”
One hand after another, he pulls himself down the string.
“Easy peasy…”
But once he’s seven feet from the ground, he isn’t quite sure what to do from there. The ground is still covered in glass. He tries calling out to the people walking by, but they just ignore him, going around, annoyed that he’s taking up their sidewalk.
“Fine, I don’t need help. I’m sure I can figure this out on my own…”
He tries tugging on his balloon string to pull it across the sidewalk, out of the glass. It moves an inch.
“There you go, Johnny Balloon,” he says. “It’s going to work just fine…”
He pulls it again, harder, moving it a whole foot across the ground this time.
“You’re the smartest balloon in town,” he says with a giggle.
He tugs on it again. The string breaks.
“Wuh…” Johnny says, as he sees the end of the string separate from the cinder block.
He floats further into the air, screaming for help, trying to swim-fly, trying to grab onto the light post that is only another arm’s reach away. Nobody even looks at him. His gaseous brain spins inside his hollow shell of a head as he drifts higher and higher toward the blue abyss above.
When he was a kid in grade school, Johnny learned about the Great Depression in history class.
He asked his teacher, “What’s the difference between the Great Depression and our times?”
The teacher looked out the window at the war torn city and said, “Our times are a heck of a lot worse.”
Johnny didn’t really
Scanning the ground, there are several broken beer bottles all around him. Slivers of glass cover the sidewalk and the street on both sides. Johnny folds up the newspaper and puts it in his bag, then carefully backs away. He’d rather play it safe and take the long way to the bank than try to tiptoe through the shards of glass.
But as he walks backward, he hears a clink as he kicks some glass with the back of his heel. When he turns around, he realizes there are more broken bottles behind him as well. He wonders how he got through all of that without popping. He must have accidentally stepped in all the right places without paying any attention.
“It must be my lucky day,” he says.
But then he realizes he’s trapped within the circle of glass. He squeak-rubs his forehead, contemplating his best course of action. One of the problems with getting rid of the gravity devices that were attached to his feet is that they used to act as protective footwear. Before, he could have walked over this glass with no worry. Now, it’s not so easy to walk safely through the streets.
Examining carefully, he realizes he’s going to have to jump over it. Safety is only five feet away. He believes he can make it, even if he won’t get much of a running start.
He bends his knees, flexing his rubber legs with a squeak-squeak .
“Come on, Johnny Balloon,” he tells himself. “You can do it.”
Then he jumps, but with the weight of the cinder block in his arms he doesn’t go very far.
“You can’t do it,” he cries, in midair.
As he watches his feet drop toward a sharp blade of glass, Johnny drops the cinder block. With the loss of weight, his body flies away from the ground, spinning toward the sky. Once he’s three stories up, his balloon string goes taut and ceases his ascent. He rolls over in the air and looks down at the people walking by on the street below. None of them seem to notice that he’s floating above them. None of them offer to help him out.
“No problem,” he says. “I’ve prepared for this…”
He swims through the air and grabs the string below him. This is something he’s practiced in his apartment several times before.
“All I have to do is climb down…”
One hand after another, he pulls himself down the string.
“Easy peasy…”
But once he’s seven feet from the ground, he isn’t quite sure what to do from there. The ground is still covered in glass. He tries calling out to the people walking by, but they just ignore him, going around, annoyed that he’s taking up their sidewalk.
“Fine, I don’t need help. I’m sure I can figure this out on my own…”
He tries tugging on his balloon string to pull it across the sidewalk, out of the glass. It moves an inch.
“There you go, Johnny Balloon,” he says. “It’s going to work just fine…”
He pulls it again, harder, moving it a whole foot across the ground this time.
“You’re the smartest balloon in town,” he says with a giggle.
He tugs on it again. The string breaks.
“Wuh…” Johnny says, as he sees the end of the string separate from the cinder block.
He floats further into the air, screaming for help, trying to swim-fly, trying to grab onto the light post that is only another arm’s reach away. Nobody even looks at him. His gaseous brain spins inside his hollow shell of a head as he drifts higher and higher toward the blue abyss above.
When he was a kid in grade school, Johnny learned about the Great Depression in history class.
He asked his teacher, “What’s the difference between the Great Depression and our times?”
The teacher looked out the window at the war torn city and said, “Our times are a heck of a lot worse.”
Johnny didn’t really
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