Jon

The bent sign on the cliff's edge read, WARNING: NO DIVING. We'd been ignoring it ever since we bent it. I dumped my bike with a dusty summer clank and I flung my tee shirt aside. The warning blurred. I was flying. The newspaper said it was fifty feet. I was falling. My arms flailed in vain to keep me upright. A white crash followed. Now my desire to walk up there and straighten that sign sometimes overwhelms me.