flight of the blue balloon

flight of the blue balloon
by softserve
I released my balloon into the air–the colour of the
sky–when you looked it square in
the eye, your pupils reflected shiny and black off
off its smooth latex surface–it soared, my balloon, sliced the sky, until
a balloon fashioned into a rac-
coon sprang upon it.  When one
marks with a sharpie a black mask and stripes, one can create,
in essence, a raccoon balloon–they are skilled, spooky looming and
sneaky; peering
into the eye
of a raccoon gets you squat—an opaque whiff of stretched rubber.
But my balloon was blue and round and perfect–the holder of my breath, an
extension of my eyes with all its eyes from all the eyes of people who’ve
looked upon it, breezing bird-style over the squares of the world;
disbelievingly, I watched teeth sink into her, and all those pupils which
deserved mirrors deflate and
plummet. If there’s ever a next time,
purple will be my chosen colour, as coons aren’t fond of it.

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