The Fall
Short Fiction
The jump is harder than the fall.
The jump is harder.
I let his words fill my head, drowning out the crashing water of the falls and the swirling current below. Thirty feet below. My toes clench against the wet granite. My skin, thickened by goosebumps, aches to be back in my clothes. But I left them at the bottom, before the climb. A reward for my bravery. A warm hug, waiting to take me home.
I close my eyes and drift until I can almost hear their voices. Can see their bare arms waving up at me. Mark and Hunter, buck naked, barely covering themselves with one hand as they cheer me on with the other. Alice and Marisol, who—like me—had the foresight to wear swimsuits under their clothes, performing a shoddy rendition of our cheerleading team’s “Another One Bites the Dust” routine. And Jada. In her red lace bra and matching thong, stretched out like a centerfold, giving Mark his fifth boner of the day, which is probably giving Hunter one, too.
I force a smile down at them from the precipice, hoping they won’t see the terror in my face. I lock eyes with Simon. Of course, he can see it. He stands up and makes a dash for the path leading up to the jump point. He steps over Jada, but not before gesturing at her, annoyed. He asks her to move, but she won’t. Simon shakes his head like she’s crazy and I want to kiss him. For being blind to her display. For not letting her slow his ascent to me.
While I wait for him to reach me, I breathe easier. I inch away from the edge until it feels safe to turn around without risking a fall backwards.
He extends his hands to me, inviting me further from the edge and into the shelter of his arms. It’s like a swan dive into contentment. The chill on my skin subsides, blood rushes to my extremities, and my defenses drop to zero.
“Hey,” he says softly. “Don’t cry.” He runs his thumbs over my cheeks to clear my tears away. “You don’t have to jump if you don’t want to.”
“I do want to,” I sob. “I just … can’t. I’m too scared. It’s so stupid.”
“It’s not stupid to be scared,” he says.
“It is,” I say. “It’s stupid. And everyone thinks I’m a loser.”
“Who thinks that? The boner twins?”
I snort laugh into his shoulder and let him squeeze me against his wet skin. Cold on the surface, but intoxicatingly warm underneath.
“No. Not them.”
“You can’t mean Alice and Mari. They love the crap out of you. You know that.”
“I know.”
He goes quiet.
Jada probably wishes I was dead. Or at least out of the way. And he knows it.
He hugs me tighter, until I can feel the thud of his heart against my cheek. I drag my palms up the length of his bare back. He shudders.
“Those were good chills, by the way,” he says with a laugh against the top of my head.
“Okay,” I say. “Mine too.” I wrap my arms around him, bringing the full length of his body against mine. I press my lips over the soft spot where his collar bones fit together. He shivers again.
“Careful,” he whispers against my ear. “You’re like one move away from meeting the long-lost boner triplet over here.”
I giggle and give him a playful shove toward recovering himself. My urge to cry is gone. Replaced with other urges. To sing. To fly.
“What if I jump with you?” he says, taking my hand and pressing it over his heart.
My pulse kicks up. A mix of panic and excitement.
I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
“I’ll hold your hand the whole time,” he says, giving my fingers a squeeze. “And I’ll give you a big hug after. And then I’ll take you home for … more hugs.” He smiles devilishly and I roll my eyes to disguise the pleasant ache his invitation conjures. “The jump is harder than the fall,” he says. “The fall is the easy part. It’s … the best part … I think.” He lowers his eyes, and his pale cheeks flush red. “If I did something that really scared me first … would that make it easier?”
My stomach twists nervously. He takes my other hand in his and runs his thumbs over my knuckles. He meets my eyes, and I’m surprised to see genuine fear in them.
I nod imperceptibly. Yes.
He takes two deep breaths, squeezes my hands, closes his eyes, licks his lips, and then the fidgeting stops altogether.
He takes my face in his hands and kisses me. It steals my breath and makes me wish he’d linger a bit longer.
He meets my eyes again. Bravely this time. He takes one last, deep breath.
And he jumps.
“I love you.”
I’m overwhelmed. Overjoyed. Unprepared. Confused. I bury my face in his chest. “These are good tears, by the way,” I assure him.
“Okay,” he says. “Mine too.”
I look up into his smiling face. I wipe his tears away and rise up on my tiptoes to kiss him.
“You going to jump or what?”
Jada slides into view over Simon’s shoulder. Her nakedness even more pronounced at close range. My heart plummets as she passes us, turning her body sideways, as if forced to by some invisible wall. Her chest grazes Simon’s arm and his eyes drift to the point of contact. I watch in agony as they follow Jada to the edge.
Every goosebump returns to my exposed flesh. My chest refuses to expand with my breath. I feel cold, scared, stupid, and inadequate. All over again.
Jada disappears from the cliff to the shouts and cheers of our friends, waiting at the bottom of the falls.
“Hey,” Simon whispers, bringing me back to our moment. His moment. “Your turn.” He smiles warmly, but it can’t cut through the ice damming up my courage. He waits for me to … I don’t know. Say something? Do something? Be something I’m not? Be someone I’m not?
The corners of his mouth turn down and my insides throb with remorse. He leads me to the edge of the precipice and my heart threatens to freeze solid as a fresh wave of fear paralyzes my lower half.
Alice and Marisol, now wrapped in towels, halfway up the path, wave supportively. Hunter and Mark, mercifully clothed, hoot and holler through cupped hands. Jada slides out of the water like a lingerie clad seal, dangling herself in front of Simon. My Simon. Simon who just told me he loved me for the first time.
But I couldn’t hear it.
I can’t trust it.
I’m too scared. And too stupid.
“It’s okay that you didn’t say it back,” he says quietly. “It is really scary.” He clears his throat. “The jump, I mean.”
I look at him and his eyes are forward, misted over. “Ready?” he says, his voice breaking.
But I’m not ready. And he knows it.
He lets go of my hand and jumps. Alone.
The jump is harder than the fall.
The jump is harder.
I clench my fists at my sides and take a deep breath. And another. And one more. I lick my lips and open my eyes, brimming with tears.
There’s no one cheering me on. No one waiting to hug me. Or take me home.
Simon was right. And wrong. The jump is really hard.
But the fall is even harder.
Welcome back to Stock Fiction. There are so many more of you to welcome today, and that always makes the job of deciding what to offer you for a first course post somewhat difficult, as the menu here can be rather eclectic.1
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It’s Sparkle Season
If you are new today, it’s very possible I owe the pleasure of making your subscriberly acquaintance to my recent appearance at The Sparkle Summit!
I cannot tell you what a treat that whole experience was for me. For those of you who haven’t watched me “sparkle” on the fiction writers panel, along with Substack all-stars
and and hosted by the super savvy , the recording lives on!
Collaboration is, without a doubt, the sparkliest spice of my writer life. Every opportunity I’ve had to engage with fellow writers and creators on this platform has borne a rewarding array of succulent fruits. Including, the story you read today. See, back in the early days, before I was invited to gab on panels and before I took it upon myself to host a rad AF podcast for my fellow fiction writers, I crossed creative paths with a guy named
, creator of the Substack . After leading a scrappy team of ten writers (including yours truly) in an epic POV-swap story challenge, the aforementioned “guy” approached yours truly about a duo collab. Together we launched The Dispatch Stock Exchange (get it?). We each wrote a story and handed it off to the other to
Not only did Sweet Sixteen go on to win the first ever Lunar Award, but it also recently received a nod from Writer’s Freakin’ Digest!!!
Damn straight it is! And I couldn’t have done it without the help of my friend and partner in writerly crime, Jordan Petersen, who might secretly hate me now because the story he wrote inspired the story I wrote that got a bunch of good press. But secretly … I just hope he’s proud of me. 💜
Win some … lose some.
In other news, I did NOT win the Black River Chapbook Competition. Therefore, my six most tenacious heart-stealers (and a handful of their edgiest and most evocative friends) will have to find some other way onto the shelves your favorite online retailer, local bookstore, or public library and subsequently into your personal collection.
That way is underway.
Please stay tuned …
On the horizon …
Watch out for episode 9 of Talk Fiction this Sunday, September 8th. My guest is Han Solo
Michael and I had a fabulous time, and you can, too! Don’t miss it!
Also on the horizon …
Some (more) sinfully crafted pitch parodies. If you want a taste of what you might be in for, I offer this as an appetizer.
Thank you so much for being here and reading my words.
Until next time, friends.
Yours truly and in fiction (nonfiction, poetry, humor, and multimedia stuffs),
Understatement of the century. This place is bonkers.
I’m my first favorite, obviously. Michael understands. 💜
Apparently Writer's Digest isn't as in tune with spotting winning talent as I am. But we can still celebrate the honorable mention! 🎉🎉🎉
Just like your protagonist in this story, you're on the edge of something and I know you're going to jump. Because climbing back down isn't an option anymore. I've jumped a few times and I'll jump a few more. Most landings are belly flops, but someday we'll both land the perfect dive.
My word, super intense. Insanely well written.