Red Planet
Every Saturday her mother wound damp strips of cotton through her long black hair, and by morning the curls sprang free, dark and shining, as though each had dreamed all night of dancing.
She tied a bright red balloon to the end of her ponytail and stepped into the morning with it tugging above her, round and solemn with borrowed sky. The neighbours smiled before they saw her, for the balloon came first over the privet hedges, bobbing past chimneys and telephone wires like a small red planet escaped from its proper heaven.
At the crossing she stood very still while the wind worried the ribbon, lifting her hair just enough for the curls to brush the nape of her neck with their secret laughter.
An old man beside her looked up, softened, and tipped his hat to the little globe as if some lost companion had returned in colour and string.
When the light changed, she skipped on, and the balloon followed all the way home, pulling gently at her hair as though the whole bright morning wished to keep her.
🎈
Written for Denise’s Six Sentence Story/Poem including the word ‘Balloon.” ©Misky 2006-2026.
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