Tinkerton hits a pocket of suspended space. On the street the cars have stopped moving. A plane overhead is a quieted image, pastel drawn, a stop-motion bullet, long in the sky.
or
Tinkerton hits a pocket of suspended time. On the street the cars have stopped. He remembers watching out the window of a plane as a child, wondering what it would be like to die.
and
The earth rising or the plane falling, he guessed it would be the same, but still. Would it hurt and how much time would it take? Would he scream? It was important for him to know if the plane dropped from the sky would it hurt or would he scream.
or
Tinkerton hits a space of fear on the outskirts where languages change, music plays counterclockwise, and the fretful landscape is difficult to see through the lurking fog. He hears an approaching car. Tinkerton hears the engine ease down, a door close, the sound muted by the improbable mist.
“Tinkerton, are you there?” a woman’s voice calls out. Tinkerton didn’t know what to do. Should he reveal himself? Inform the woman of his whereabouts? For Tinkerton it was important to know what to do in just such a situation.
or
Tinkerton, in a moment of suspended breath, clamps his fingers to the side of the precipice. He regrets clawing his way down. He could’ve let the ball go. His mother might purchase a new one, after all, another 30 cent toy. But he’d come down to save it. He can see it now on a ledge just below. All Tinkerton has to do is turn slowly, take a few more steps down, reach carefully and grab for it. But an insight comes. It comes to him with the call of a bird, some lonely bird, singing out of the vast empty air beneath him. The insight is that the ball may be above rather than below him. He hasn’t the desire to open his eyes.
or
Tinkerton caught in a moment when the crowd has paused. In the air, an orange balloon has come into view. He senses that some in the crowd are asking about the balloon’s origins, another asking about it’s future, all others simply transfixed by the beauty of a balloon altering the pattern of the day.
and
Which explains why the cars have stopped, the streets suddenly quiet, the plane stamped against the young blue sky. Tinkerton trapped, an orange balloon passing behind one of the taller buildings, and gone.
and
He opens his eyes on a cliff face, in his hand, a bird’s egg. It’s important for Tinkerton to know where the ball has gone and how a bird’s egg has assumed its figure into his hand.
or
Which explains why the cars have stopped, the streets suddenly quiet, the plane stamped onto the young blue sky. Tinkerton hears his voice called. He turns. “You forgot your lunch, Tinkerton,” a woman says, approaching. “And why are you standing in the street, blocking the traffic.”
