I swung from the ledge, arms and legs
wrapped around the thick, fuzzy rope like a lover
screaming as I launched toward water.
“Let go!” they chorused below me,
like curious, bossy ducks. “Now, now!”
I pried myself from one momentum to another,
tucked my limbs close to my torso as I fell,
and broke like night across the surface of the sky.
I vaguely heard the cheers beyond the rush of air
invading my ears. When I caught my retreated breath,
I was on solid ground, alone. No lake to accept me,
nor a single cloud or bird.
I briefly wondered as I bled, crumpled, whose voices
led me here, to a place where the only corporeal
things are swinging ropes and rocks.
Will I lure others, too, once my heart stops beating?
Jennifer Ruth Jackson writes about reality’s weirdness and the plausibility of the fantastic. Her work has appeared in Strange Horizons, Star*Line, Apex Magazine, and more. She lives in a small Wisconsin city with her husband. Visit her on Twitter: @jenruthjackson.