The Day We Lost Gravity

The Day We Lost Gravity

By; Abdullah

No one in Maplewood had ever seen anything stranger than the time Mrs. Peterson’s rooster learned to skateboard. That was, of course, before the morning of June 14th — the day the town woke up and the ground stopped holding us down.

It started at exactly 6:02 a.m., according to the cracked clock in my kitchen. I was mid-yawn when my coffee floated out of my mug and hovered in front of my face like a brown, steaming jellyfish.

I didn’t panic right away — maybe because it was Monday, and Mondays already felt unnatural. But then my socks left my feet and drifted upward like lazy ghosts. I pushed against the kitchen table, and instead of standing, I drifted.

That’s when the screaming started outside.

From my window, I saw Mrs. Lopez’s Chihuahua, Taco, spinning in slow circles above her front lawn, barking like a blender full of marbles. Two teenagers floated past on their bikes — without the bikes — arms flailing in the air.

By the time I got outside, the whole town was in a state of mild chaos. Some people were thrilled, laughing and doing somersaults in the air. Others were clinging to fences, mailboxes, or, in the case of Mr. Harris, the stop sign, yelling about “the rapture.”

We didn’t have scientists in Maplewood — we had Carl, the science teacher at the high school, who claimed he “once met Neil deGrasse Tyson’s cousin.” Carl was already holding an impromptu press conference in the town square, which now looked more like a snow globe with people floating instead of snow.

“I believe,” Carl said, adjusting his glasses as he bobbed up and down, “that the Earth’s gravitational pull has… well… stopped pulling. Temporarily. We’re basically in space now — except still in town.”

“That’s not possible,” shouted Sheriff Briggs, who was holding his hat down with both hands. “If we were in space, we couldn’t breathe!”

“Well,” Carl said, drifting sideways into the flagpole, “clearly something unusual is going on.”

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The first hour was chaos. Kids were overjoyed, adults were terrified, and all the pigeons abandoned town completely — apparently, even birds don’t trust a sky without rules.

But after the panic came the experimenting. People discovered you could swim through the air like in a pool, except you didn’t get wet. The bakery started selling “Floating Donuts” by tying them to string so customers could reel them in. Kids bounced a basketball that never came back down, leading to the longest basketball game in history — it’s probably still going somewhere over Kansas.

Then the church bells started ringing. Pastor Mary floated out onto the front steps, her long robe drifting like seaweed. “Maybe,” she said, “this is a gift. A reminder from above that we’re not as grounded as we think we are.”

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By mid-afternoon, though, the novelty had worn off. Without gravity, things got complicated. Pouring water was impossible without spraying yourself in the face. Soup was a disaster. Mr. Harrison lost his dentures when he sneezed, and they floated out the open window like tiny pale UFOs.

The worst part was seeing the older folks struggle. My neighbor, Mrs. Fields, was clinging to her porch railing, afraid to move. She’d always been fiercely independent — mowing her lawn, painting her shutters — but now she looked small and scared.

I grabbed some rope, tied it around my waist, and drifted over to her. “Come on,” I said, “you’re coming with me.”

“I’ll just float away,” she whispered.

“Not if I’ve got you.”

She took my hand, and we slowly kicked through the air toward the town square, where others had gathered. Soon, ropes crisscrossed the square like a giant spiderweb, tethering people together so no one drifted off. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something.

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As the day went on, we started working together. The hardware store gave out bungee cords for free. The diner set up a floating picnic by tying trays to balloons so they stayed within arm’s reach. Even grumpy old Sheriff Briggs started to smile as kids zoomed past, pretending to be astronauts.

And then, just before sunset, it happened.

It started as a faint tug — a feeling in my stomach, like riding an elevator downward. Donuts on strings began to sag. People slowly sank toward the ground. Mrs. Lopez caught Taco mid-air like a bouquet.

Gravity was back.

We stood there in the square, awkwardly touching down, as if we’d all just been caught doing something we weren’t supposed to. There was a strange silence.

Then someone laughed. And then everyone did. We laughed until the streetlamps came on, until the fear and the wonder and the absurdity of the day melted into one big memory.

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Weeks later, life in Maplewood went back to normal. Almost. A few people started wearing bungee cords “just in case.” Kids still bragged about their “space tricks.” And sometimes, late at night, I’d look at the sky and feel a little disappointed that the stars stayed where they were.

But something had changed. On that day without gravity, we’d learned something important — about helping each other, about laughing through fear, and about how a small town can float together without falling apart.

And if it ever happens again?

Well… I’ve still got my rope.