Green clear balls

The green clear balls in the box, in regular rows, still. And the man in a grey business suit who walks out onto his balcony, stops, throws a swift glance to the left, then to the right, and jumps. The green clear balls out of the box. Nothing holds them, nothings holds him. The balls in free fall, and then a wind lifts them up again, for they are light. The air is reflected in them and turns around variable axes. The man turns around a single axis on his way to the bottom, to the asphalt. Is there a veil that will catch him? The loving look he remembered (Velma from the Chandler novel maybe)? An elegant, seductive bedroom look. He turns in two of the clear green balls, then in three, then in all of them. There is an urge in their turning. Maybe they can save him. He is a valuable person; it is sad that he should end this way. He may be condemned as a weak character by his landlady and the girl in the apartment next to his (because she had an eye on him, then saw him with another woman one night - that woman was scolding him), and right now he is so undecided, even in his death flight, but he is serious and has an understanding for others. His choice is not his; it is his understanding. The green clear balls stop for a moment.

Copyright © by Johannes Beilharz, November 1982 / May 2017 Back to fiction index