the only noise is a brief whoosh from the burner, which the Pilot turns on for a few seconds so we won’t land short into the woods ahead.
        Woods or wires?  Woods or wires?  Whoosh.  Silence…Whoosh…whoosh…silence.
        Suddenly he yells again.  His bushy red beard and mustache look as if they are barely moving, but his lips are forming words; he’s more animated than he has been all morning.  Well, no wonder.  The ground is close now and moving rapidly beneath us. 
        My wife and I are holding on for dear life to the struts of the basket, our fingers curled tightly around them.
        “Get your fingers inside the basket!” the Pilot yells.  “Grab the handles at waist level.  That’s what they’re for!  If you have your fingers outside the struts when we go over sideways…”
        He doesn’t need to finish the grizzly thought. Going on our side?  What?!  On that TV ad, Christopher Morley always comes down ever-so-smoothly and touches the ground ever-so-lightly.
        Okay, now I see that we’re going to miss the trees.  Good.  Whoosh!   The ground looms close.  We’re over an open field.  Great!  The wires are off in the distance.  We’re going to be fine.  I can see the chase car, with Mrs. Pilot in it, but there’s no way she’s going to be close when we land this thing; between the forest and wires, there are only farm fields, no roads.  But she’ll find us, I’m sure.
    
I’m holding on as hard as I can to that handle by my knees, stooping a little.  Touchdown!  Bounce.  Touchdown, again.  Still moving fast.  And now the balloon is carried by the wind ahead of us and the basket tips onto its side.  My glasses go flying, I think into the bottom of the basket, but maybe not.
        “Hold on!” the Pilot yells at us.
        “Hold on!” I say to myself and my wife.
        The basket is dragging on the ground. The silence has ended.  I’m yelling.  Inches from my face, the ground races by.  Then we slow to a halt.  I’m on my knees in the basket, groping for my glasses.
        The Pilot barks, “Get out.  Go up front and pull that rope hanging from the balloon.”
        Does he mean me?  Must be.  This is a job for a MAN!  I crawl out on my knees, onto the cold hard ground.  Clamber up.  The balloon is starting to rise again.  Now I understand.  If I pull on the rope, the flap on top of the balloon will be released (well, not “top” at the moment, but okay).  It will let the warm air out and things will settle and my wife will be fine.
    
I stand under the balloon, stretch all of my five-feet, six inch frame upward, reaching with my arms another few feet, and I can’t reach the rope.  So I jump.  Got it!  But now my feet are off the ground.
        The Pilot’s yelling again, “Pull! Pull!”  How can I pull more when my weight is already on the rope and my feet are off the ground?  Aren’t there laws of physics here?  With a bit of luck, the flap flies open and suddenly I’m on the ground again, knees buckled.
        The balloon is collapsing.  My wife crawls out of the basket as I did, on hands and knees. The Pilot’s out in one sideways step; this is routine for him.  “Don’t step on my glasses!” I call out, just in time.  My wife reaches back and retrieves them.  Thank Heavens!
    
So here we are.  Where?  The Pilot doesn’t seem worried; he starts to flatten the balloon.  He’s packing up.  He says nothing more.  The ride is over. 
        It was pleasant while we were drifting high above.  Tiny golfers yelling, “Where are you going?”  Tinier pigs.  School kids waving.  Seeing all those pretty, rectangular farms.  Now, way in the distance, I spot the chase car.  Looking back from whence we came, I see a long, wide furrow of soybeans, now plowed into mud.  We did some job!  Mrs. Pilot must be afraid to drive onto the land, so she stays on the far road, a mere speck next to the forest.
        It starts to snow.  Perfect.
    
A Jeep comes flying across the field toward us, kicking up dirt into the snowflakes.  It stops.  A middle-aged guy throws open the door and jumps out.  “What the hell do you think you’re doing here?  Do you know whose land this is?”
        Well, hello to you, too.  But we say nothing.

         “Well, you can’t stay here.  And you're going to pay for the crop damage.”
        “If you’ll just let my chase car come in, we’ll be out of your way in a few minutes.”
        “Chase car? Are you crazy?  No one is driving into this field!  I called the cops.  You’re not going anywhere until the damage is paid for.  And, Mr. Simons will be hearing about this!”
    
Now I know where we are.  We’re on The Simons’ property, the poor guy who owns half of the pro sports teams in town, and now maybe a hot air balloon, too.  The balloon is not my problem but the police might be, as well as the snow and the cold.
        The Pilot squeezes the rest of the air out of the balloon, rolls it up and stuffs it into the basket.  And then we wait.  It’s a standoff.  It’s also ten minutes of silence, but not the peaceful silence of flight.  That was enjoyable.  The icy cold is not.
    
The Lake County Sheriff’s car pulls up into the field.  I guess he didn’t hear the Butcher. 
        “What’s going on?” he asks.
        “These people and their damn balloon are trespassing on Mr. Simons’ property.  They damaged some of the crop, worth thousands of dollars.  They’re not leaving until they pay.”
        The deputy turns to the Pilot.  “And what’s your story, sir?  Do you have a license?”
        Pilot shows the officer a license.  Very impressive.  It occurs to me I should have thought to ask about this before we stepped into the basket.  Good thing he has one.
        “If they don’t pay, I want them arrested!”
        “If this gentleman would let my chase car in here,” the Pilot says with great calm, “I could be out of here quickly.”
        “You are already trespassing.  No chase car!”
        “Did you have permission to land here?” the deputy asks.
        “No, I had no choice.”
        “I see.”
        “They’re trespassing!  Aren’t you going to arrest them?”
        “No, sir, I’m not.  Technically, they are not trespassing. The land wasn’t marked ‘Private Property’ so it was visible from the air.”
        For a moment, I think that Mr. Butcher is going to foam at the mouth.  He recovers quickly.  “No goddamn chase car.”
        “I’m afraid he’s right folks.  The land is posted, over there where you say your car is.”
        One more try from Mr. Butcher.  “I want your name and license number.”
        Pilot says quietly, “We’re leaving.”
    
We’re leaving?  Without the basket?  No, I see not.  The Pilot motions to us. “C’mon, grab a handle and let’s go.”  The three of us?  In this snow and crap?  Are you serious?  “You think the three of us can lift this?” I ask.
        “Oh yeah, no problem.”
        We barely manage.  Our hands and knuckles are freezing.  The basket keeps hitting the ground and we short people struggle to keep moving.  It must be three hundred yards or two miles to the road. 
        Twenty minutes later, we’re at the chase car.  Mrs. Pilot says,” What happened?”
        The Pilot replies, “Nothing much, just a bit of a rough landing, but everything’s okay now.”
    
There’s no conversation on the hour drive back to the balloon port.  I just keep looking at my wife.  Her face is white. We hold hands for the warmth.  She probably won’t want me to bid on any more balloon rides at the next charity auction.
        I’ve been grounded.  
 
 
                         About The Author
  
        Robert Weisz is happily retired from the telecommunications industry.  His first publication was in a high school litmag (in the middle of the last century!).  He has been writing sporadically ever since.
        He previously won 2nd place in a Calliope fiction contest and at www.toasted-cheese.com.  He wrote a humorous chapter in a soccer referee anthology.  During last year’s NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month), he completed the first draft of a fantasy novel based on a friend’s artwork.  He says, “I am now struggling with the revision process.”

It’s now clear to me that we’re going to land somewhere—anywhere—and soon!  We’ve run out of choices.  The fuel is low and the wind has picked up too much. The Pilot yells, “Hold on!  We’re going for that field on this side of those wires.”  I certainly hope so, and not in the wires.
        He’s yelling, not because it is noisy, but because he’s as excited as we are—his two passengers.  Silence again—definitely not a good sign.  In the balloon, , we are the wind;

 The Pilot can handle this.  I hope.   Now that the initial moment has passed, I look the man over.  He’s wearing a long white apron covering his overalls, and he’s covered with blood.  Now I have some concern.
        “I was butchering and I saw you come down.  Who gave you permission to land here?”
        The Pilot speaks.  “No one.  I had no choice.  This is where she ran out of fuel and into the wind.”

Copyright © Robert Weisz