JUMP David Gitelman
John Smith stood on the precipice. He gripped his briefcase tightly as he squinted downwards, but he could not see the bottom. The poor man in front of him had just fallen. He had flapped his arms desperately, but in vain, and had dropped further and further until John could no longer see him. Was he okay? A chill ran down John’s spine and he flipped up his white starched collar. It would be fine! He was prepared for this. The man behind him tapped his shoulder. “Excuse me? You’re holding up the line.” John mumbled an apology and stepped out of the way as the man sauntered towards the edge of the cliff. His shoes were polished and his hat was perfectly perched atop his head. His suit was clean and well-fitted. He casually strode up to the gaping void and jumped as though it were the most natural thing in the world. John’s heart leapt as the man began to fly, rhythmically, as though riding upon a gust of wind. John stared until the man had vanished over the edge of the horizon. John steadied himself. He took a deep breath and walked right to the edge of the chasm. He looked down. He still couldn’t see the bottom. It was simply too dark. Too deep. He felt another tap on his shoulder. “Sir, if you’re going to keep letting people cut you in line, perhaps you should just leave.” John adjusted his own hat. He turned back to look at the speaker. He was a young man. His suit was ill-fitted, as though he had borrowed it from his father. The soles were falling off his shoes. His old hat bore visible needlework and patches. And yet, he wore a look of determined zeal. This boy was ready to fly. “Well, sir?” John smiled, saluted the boy, turned back towards the abyss, and jumped.
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