It catches up with you.
☁️🎈🌌☁️🎈🌌☁️🎈🌌
Hot air balloons needed care.
That’s what Tim and James Wright wanted to do for theirs.
And their hands, worn from breaking locks.
Wielding knives and spilling blood.
☁️🎈🌌☁️🎈🌌☁️🎈🌌
In the wee hours before dawn broke, the brothers wheeled their hot air balloon into an industrial lot.
It was a tattered balloon held together only by repairs and regret.
A place they thought was forgotten.
A place where only silence collected.
But shapes of old mistakes rose from the tar, floating between the cracks.
The balloon remained upright, but the ground rooted their past.
☁️🎈🌌☁️🎈🌌☁️🎈🌌
The balloon rose, hesitant, quivering.
But their feet stayed on the gravel, along with their heavy hearts.
The ground and the world wanted what the brothers owed.
Shadows whirled around them, refusing to yield.
They exchanged looks again — acknowledging the cost of freedom.
The balloon, patched and worn, sagged.
Tired of waiting.
The brothers’ past always behind them.
☁️🎈🌌☁️🎈🌌☁️🎈🌌
The silhouette in the shadows grew longer.
Steps echoed across the gravel, purposeful and steady.
Precise. Patient.
Yanking the ropes firmly.
The balloon couldn’t rise.
The Past couldn’t leave—
It had come.
And would not relent.
☁️🎈🌌☁️🎈🌌☁️🎈🌌
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The Getting Literal Writing Alcove 