The bridge swung from left to right against the wishes of the steel cables. The rush of cold air on a summer afternoon might have been warning signs, but Jack let those thoughts disappear like water drops on a hot pan. The kid in charge of tying people up by the feet and throwing them off a 180-foot bridge seemed too young for this audacious task. As this unqualified four-year-old wrapped the bungee rope around Jack’s pale ankles, he felt goosebumps dance to his head. The water below and the wind above roared, but the rocky hills around him sat silent and still with the unapproving look of a mother named nature. He expected to hear screams from the fat man who jumped before him, but all he got was silence broken by the sound of the rope stretching to its limit. Jack’s turn. He hopped like a bunny to the edge of the wooden platform. He could picture a group of growling pirates with their swords pointing to his back. As the young boy in charge counted down, Jack’s head went quiet, devoid of screeching thoughts. He leaned forward against the wind and let gravity pull him into a different world.
I am Jack. Jack is You. Jack is Them. Jack is Who.
All organs look the same and behave the same when Jack falls.
Jack’s mind turned into a long spaghetti noodle and stretched as he approached the water. He’s much younger now. His mother’s hand feels much larger as she helps him cross the creek. He looks up, but only sees an outstretched arm leading up to the sun. The grass is softer on this side of the creek and it bristles against his hairless legs. He can hear the chewing of dried apricots above, but the face is blocked by the sun. Jack grabs a wrinkly leaf and puts it to his mouth when a second hand slaps it away. “Don’t eat that!” a voice commands. The larger arm leads him to a gravel path where Jack grabs a sharp pebble and examines it between his tiny fingers. The hand comes crashing down again, “Don’t touch that!”. The grip tightens and his shoulder starts to moan. He sees drops of apricot juice and saliva plop onto the path. Jack and the larger arm reach an adobe house with two stick figures above an entrance. “I will be right back,” the voice says. They both let go. He watches as the arm that held him swings along a strange body. It disappears behind the sound of blow dryers and flushing toilets. Jack sees a pinecone wedged between shoots of grass that ripple in the wind. As he reaches for it, he feels an arm pull him back.
An orgasmic fluid dripped down his spine as blood pooled into the back of his eyes. Jack’s fingertips grazed the water as the rope catapulted him back from where he came. The world was upside down and his view disoriented, but behind the hills that now spun, the winds that now died, the water that now whispered, and the rope that now deceived, stood a woman who was glad her tight grip had weakened.