Rise, Son

These are the winning entries for this month's prompt: RISINGSON.

My husband hired a hot air balloon for our fifteenth anniversary -
Honey, you have to give them a little background first. Also the word you're looking for is 'rented'.
I was giving them the background.What background do you want?
How about, 'We have two kids'?
I was getting to that. So, like I was saying, my husband rented a hot air balloon for our fifteenth anniversary. The whole family was out on a picnic - that is, me, my husband and our two kids (see, I told you I was getting to that). The kids were off playing while we were sitting on the picnic blanket enjoying the prelude to twilight.
We were staring at the sun.
It was your idea, dear.
… I'm not complaining. I thought it was quite romantic.
Right… well, the boys are off playing when all of a sudden Oldie-
That's our older son.
- Oldie comes running to us. He says “Mom, mom!-
He's fifteen.
- “Youngie got on the blimp and took off!”
Youngie's our younger son. He's thirteen.
And then he says to him -
No, let me say this part. And then I said to him, “Son, that's not a blimp, it's a hot air balloon. You have to know the difference. It's what separates us from the animals.”
And the immigrants.
And the immigrants. Thank you, honey. So, once Oldie was properly re-educated to make sure he wouldn't make the same mistake again, we finally got to the matter which he wanted to bring to our attention. Youngie had taken off with the blimp hot air balloon I had rented for our fifteenth anniversary. Apparently -
Apparently Oldie distracted the valet -
He's not a valet.
- Well, balloon-keeper, whatever. That's not the point. He distracted him while Youngie made off with the balloon.
Boys will be boys.
I know, sweetheart, but I can't help but worry about him. I mean, what is he doing now? What if he has to resort to eating birds and insects and - can you drink clouds?
You're fretting over nothing, dear. When I was a lad my father set me off on a hot air balloon and look at me now.
He's only a boy!
Oldie was only a boy when we put him on a hot air balloon and set him off two years ago. He turned out quite alright.
He said 'blimp', George. For goodness' sake he said ****-ing 'blimp'!
You may have a point there, dear.

***

The Balloon Seller

Ahm Mustafizur Rahman

Laughter, mirth and unadulterated exuberance. This is what old Khalil was surrounded by, from the strike of noon all the way 'til dusk. During this time, his heart beat with more purpose, his eyes sparkled behind those heavy wrinkles and his tired old body seemed to rejuvenate and rewind the clock by a few decades. Khalil felt whole.
Khalil was a balloon-seller. It was how he made his living and earned his bread. Torn shoes, a dirty pair of pants and a tattered shirt, his clothes painted a picture of destitution. Yet all the children of South City school loved him, and hounded him as he stood a little by the side of the main gate, his platoon of balloons bobbing nonchalantly over his right shoulder, while his crooked smile and quivering eyes wiped away the graveness his clothes presented.

But of course, that somber cloud inevitably clung to him like a kurta on a hot sweaty day in Dhaka. As the number of balloons dwindled, and the laughter and joy of the children all but disappeared, Khalil's age finally caught up to him. He always sold his last balloon with a heavy heart, barely managing to keep that smile on his face as the exchange occurred. He always sold them all; Allah had blessed him in this respect.

But then Khalil went into the darkness; into a world removed from laughter and joy. He was alone. The marked contrast between his sunny joy-filled days and quiet brooding nights had to be seen to be believed. His gentle nature and humble demeanor were not suited for the lifestyle he had to endure, and in the dog eat dog world that he was surrounded by, he found little solace and peace beyond dusk.

Darkness had never been kind to him. It had robbed him of many things, including his entire family. Khalil had often wished that he be rid of his time in the world, that he too might finally find peace. But Khalil was a religious man, and the thought of taking his own life had never crossed his mind. He was not a defeatist; his inner strength was profound and unshakable. But he cried, and cried often until he could cry no more. The pale neon light of his room only served to add a further layer of despair as he fought to get what he rightfully deserved – some sleep.
But then the day would come. He would rise again. He'd put on his shabby clothes. He'd get his stock of balloons and fill them up. He'd walk slowly to his usual spot. He'd take a slow, deep breath, taking in the light of the day. Taking inspiration and strength from the joyous laughter all around him, he'd transform himself again until his superpowers ran out…

The writer, 23, is an economics graduate from BRAC University.

Next month's prompt: PREMSHIKARI
Deadline: 20/11/14