The Littlest Juggler

He had been juggling since... well, he couldnt remember a time when he wasnt juggling something. Usually the traditional balls, but occasionally, when he was younger, a rattler or two, perhaps a toy drum and its attendant sticks, then moving on to his sister's dolls, all of them flying in the air in a dance with its own rhythm, one not easily shared.

As he grew up, he added more and more: a panolply  that jumped and lept by his deft hands. His favourite was the flaming orbs, four magical balls that had to be lit before he could toss them into the air, their very flames lighting up the afternoon sky. The crowds adored this trick, and it guaranteed him a full stomach and a place to sleep, and that was enough. His own needs were simple: all he wanted was to throw things in the air, as many as possible, and keep them aloft without letting any touch the ground.

He grew older and found that he couldnt manage quite as many as before. During one especially fearsome afternoon, he dropped one of the flaming orbs, nearly missing one member of the audience. So he reduced the number from four to three, not as good but still enough to bring appreciative ooohs from the audience.

Years passed, and he found he could only juggle the magic orbs: the other props, tantalizing, were now unfamiliar in his hands. He tried one afternoon to juggle his sister's old dolls and dropped all three. The timing was off, unreachable as a long-lost memory. So he stayed with the orbs and found solace in their comfortable heat.

But another fell to earth, then another, leaving him with only a single orb that he tossed aimlessly up and down. The crowds had long since departed; now he only juggled (such as it might have been) for himself. But he looked back on the days when he could handle anything; he could juggle the world if need be. And he thought to himself, One last chance. I'll give myself one last chance.

So, carefully and methodically, one bright afternoon, he took out all four orbs, coated them, prepared his hands, set them alight, and threw the first one in the air. Finding the rhythm, he added another. Then another. Then cautiously, carefully, the fourth, until all four were burning the air, setting it ablaze. And for a moment, one brief moment, he was eighteen again, ready to take on the world, ready to juggle anything and everything.

Then, just as suddenly, the rhythm was gone, and he jumped to elude the burning orbs as they crashed to the earth, their flames dying as they met the sweet, damp grass. He looked at them, then walked away as they threw up wisps of smoke that danced in the early evening air.