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what my mind assures me is my final breath. I can do nothing to prevent overbalancing, falling. Gravity tugs me earthward and my body reaches the limit of my arms, forcing me to release the railing. I leave the building.

Suddenly freed from the possibility of rescue, my body curiously abandons fear. Physicists tell me I am now falling at 32 ft./sec2, but they have grossly miscalculated; I have minutes to analyze my descent. My eyes lock on the duct-taped "X" marking my ideal landing position, discarding every visual irrelevancy in a queer kind of tunnel vision while my arms and legs flail with precisely rehearsed abandon to simulate a panicked victim though I am confident and relaxed, my breathing regular and deep as I listen to the wind rushing by serenely, assuring me I am not falling after all: I am flying.

The pad looms. I snap my head and shoulders down. The world spins: mat, building, sky. I straighten out.

Impact.

The vinyl surface greets me in a single touch from head to heels, embracing me in a foam sigh as kinetic energy squeezes the remaining air from my lungs. The shudder of deceleration runs through my body like an all-over massage; I ride the bouncing recoil until all motion stops. Relief floods the vacuum of vanished fear.
I roll off the mat into the handshake of the director. Congratulations, he says, we got the shot. Set for the next scene, everybody. The hurry-up-and-wait bustle lurches back into action, and I am in the way like a discarded prop. As I make my way to the side, an eternally-stoic grip casts a reassessing gaze in my direction, then cocks an eye up at the fire escape high overhead.

"Pretty brave, man," he begrudges. I smile and shrug.

Sure, I am. On the ground.

Learn more about this author, David Bareford.
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