Parachute

 

Every Tuesday at 3 p.m., the sky above our town would ripple with anticipation. People paused their lives, eyes turned upward. And like clockwork, he came—The Parachute Man.

He wore a red jumpsuit, drifting down from the clouds with practiced grace, landing on the same cobblestone spot each week without a word. No one knew who he was or where he went. Some said he’d been doing it for decades. Others whispered that he was a time traveler, an angel, a magician.

But one Tuesday, he didn’t land.

At first, we thought he was late. Then we saw him suspended in midair, motionless, his parachute gone. He hovered silently, watching. Then something fluttered down: a small note, landing at my feet.

“This time, you jump.”

I looked up, expecting him to descend. But he didn’t. He faded, slowly, into the sky, and then he was gone.

No one spoke. The marketplace fell quiet. We read the note again and again, hoping it would make sense. It didn’t.

The following week, the baker’s daughter stood at the bridge. I saw the note in her hand. I wanted to stop her, but she stepped forward and jumped.

We never saw her again.

The Parachute Man never returned. Just the silence, the memory, and the message: This time, you jump.

***

217 words

Another shorter piece. I'm not sure where I'd take this one if I continued. I'm tempted to explore different options for the meaning of "jump" that aren't so literal, but I'm not sure.