The Red Balloon by Mileva Anastasiadou

The Red Balloon


    It was summer for a while and then came winter. Not like it usually does, gradually, step by step, a few clouds in the beginning, some drops of rain, a bit of cold, but abruptly, a new day dawned and it was suddenly winter. No autumn in between, not time to lay a carpet, to find warm clothes, to warm the house.
    I then found the balloon. I wore it around my neck, as a talisman. It wasn’t a necklace, but a proper balloon, like those you blow and then they deflate gradually with time. That keep you high, when gravity seems unbeatable. That take you along with them in the sky, the clouds and you watch chaos from above, when entropy is the only flower in bloom. And entropy is the only flower blooming during wintertime. It doesn’t need water. It grows all by itself.
    Red was the balloon, like fire, to warm me up, when it was cold, within or without me. I painted it red to remind me of blood, poppies, revolution, hope. Red is the color of hope. Hope is neither blue, like the sky, nor green like the leaves. It is red, because hope burns, like fire and warms like fire. Because the sky and the leaves have existed since forever. And fire has always existed, yet I had to discover it. Like hope. In the winter. That keeps you high, even while falling.
    I blew it with all my might. It didn’t take air, but words, pictures, notes. The words weren’t empty, like they usually are. The words made sense and filled the pages and blew the balloon. Unspoken words are heavy. Empty words are heavy. Heavy like empty notes and empty pictures. They need air, love, dedication, solidarity, to be filled with meaning. Only then do they fill the balloon with air.
    Fear those who fear exposure, for they are doomed to a life unlived. Dangerous are the creatures whose dreams remain unnoticed. For they seek revenge against those who dared.  Fear those who are shirts and pants and skirts, who iron their flaws every day to appear perfect and flawless. For those who take themselves so seriously are the ones to suck the air out of the balloon. Their empty words, notes and pictures keep the balloon colorless and empty. Learn how to avoid pretension. I learned to stay away

    And the balloon grew so big that it became the airship that took me to Spring. I threw away the weights to go higher. Uncountable weights. Multiplying like weeds, like entropy which blooms in winter. The sons of entropy that pull me down. Multiplying, like the rings of a growing chain. But I blow the balloon and it gets bigger and beats the gravity and flies higher and higher. And the weights disappear, or they might be there, standing weak, watching me as I fly. I blow the balloon and I fly high, yet something happens and I abruptly fall. Fall off the clouds into the coldest winter.
    It took me long to learn to fly. I don’t need the balloon anymore. I fly on my own, spitting words, notes, pictures that are gathered in my mind to make me heavy. I’ve been swinging like a pendulum in between seasons, since then. I spit, I blow and then I become light, like a red balloon, like hope itself and reach the sky and then I fall again. I then begin from the start.
    I know now; the secret is to stay up, while falling.
    And then I left my talisman for someone else to have it. For somebody who might need it. I left it there, dressed in red. I left it in the cold.       I left it there, like Prometheus left fire. I left it there for someone in need to wear it.
   And it became a monument. The iron lung of a generation. A symbol of resistance against entropy and darkness. Against hopelessness and whatever it is that steals air and life.

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Bio: Mileva Anastasiadou is a neurologist, living and working in Athens, Greece. Her work can be found in many journals and anthologies, such as the Molotov Cocktail, Maudlin house, Menacing Hedge, Midnight Circus, Big Echo:Critical SF, Jellyfish Review, Asymmetry Fiction and others. She has published two books in Greek and a collection of short stories in English (Once Upon a Dystopia by Cosmic Teapot Publication).

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