He stood in the courtyard dominated by ancient oaks, and waited for something to happen. His index finger tingled slightly. In a nearby tree was the fluorescent orange frisbee that he had accidentally planted there the week before in his overzealous throwing (his father had just clucked his tongue and said, "Well that's that, then"). Tristram thought about the word on the inside of his ring, the word in direct contact with his skin, and he jumped.
It was an unremarkable jump, maybe a foot from the ground, but he could have sworn that he had hung at the apex for just a hair longer than normal. He jumped again, and this time he was certain. He jumped again and again, his height and hang time increasing with each attempt, his landings soft, as if cushioned. He couldn't believe it. Up and up and up, as if using an exponential pogo stick, laughing with the joy of it, jumping high enough to reach the upper branches of the oak tree, and then snagging the frisbee with ease.
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