Your Story #131

Prompt: Write a short story of 650 words or fewer based on the photo prompt above. You can be poignant, funny, witty, etc.; it is, after all, your story.

Email your submission to yourstorycontest@aimmedia.com with the subject line "Your Story 131."

No attachments, please. Include your name and mailing address. Entries without a name or mailing address with be disqualified.

Unfortunately, we cannot respond to every entry we receive, due to volume. No confirmation emails will be sent out to confirm receipt of submission. But be assured all submissions received before entry deadline are considered carefully. Official Rules

Entry Deadline: CLOSED

Out of nearly 200 entries, WD editors chose the following 5 finalists. Vote for your favorite using the poll at the bottom of the page.

Ligon grabbed the first human ball he saw. He dribbled to the goal, confident they would win. He warmed up with a few delicate shots. He had been playing since he was a tadpole and was now in the majors. He dropped it in while swatting away Purgan flies with one of his free hands. He used another hand to scratch his back because of the bites. There’s no such thing as Human Ball without the flies. All the dead little corpses.

His little ball lady survived all his layups, which was a good sign. A guy from the Howain Galaxy already killed two by dribbling too hard. His mother was in the stands. He promised his father, dying of Chechon Cancer in the hospital, he’d win one for him. But that wasn’t the only reason he needed a win. He found out he might be traded to the Smardon Galaxy, the worst team in the league.

He had dedicated his whole life to Human Ball. When he was a kid, he was lucky to be chosen as a ball tadpole. He went with the collectors to find some choice humans. They always tried to abduct the kind that were isolated from society, which took some time. They had to monitor them in their little wooden caves to see how often they left home for anything but work. The less of a social life, the longer they went without being missed. He giggled every time they grabbed a new one. Their screams were squeaky like when you dropped a Sondoe Lobster into the water.

They showed him how to build the Fidano Bubble around them. It was a clear bubble, so you could see if the human was still alive. It was injected with the air which contained the nutrients they needed to survive. Some even lived through the off season when stowed in the locker room.

Today he would break the all-time scoring record in the known universe. Twenty-five consecutive shots without killing a single human. That would solidify his place in the Human Ball Hall of Fame. It would also bring cheer to his dad’s rotting bones.

The key to winning was good defense. They were up against a player with a twenty-foot primary arm span. That guy could reach up and set the ball in the hoop without having to jump. There were no other ball players in the universe like him. That meant they had to get their web down. The web is when they use all their secondary arms to make a web, without touching each other, to keep him from getting to the goal. The hard part was getting the ball gently away from him and taking it down court. Most of them hurt the human but he was gentle as a Kuru feather floating on the back of a Shiz Lamb cotton ball.

Ligon picked up another human ball and did something he was warned not to ever do. He lifted it to his eye and peered into the tiny little dots on its face. For a split second he felt fear. It wasn’t his fear, but the fear of the lady human inside. He couldn’t hear her little lobster screams because the ball was insulated for sound, so as not to distract the fans from the game. He felt her fear.

She was new. Why didn’t she understand the goal was to keep her alive? These little things had everything they’d ever need and without having to work for it. Maybe it wasn’t fear. Maybe it was his imagination. It was hard to fathom they had souls. Otherwise, they wouldn’t isolate themselves the way they did.

Anyway. They won and his dad died. He didn’t break the record, but it was nice tying it. 

Fear is like stumbling in the dark. You never know when it will reach out and grab you. Better to leave the light on, so fear will stay in the closet. It still calls to you, but it can’t grab you unless you turn the lights off.

When I was a kid, my mom enrolled me in acting classes to learn to express myself, to bring me out of my shell. Only, I wasn’t a turtle. I was just unsure, and cautious from being loved so hard. Mom said that’s what good mothers do, and that it hurt her more than me. No child should be loved that hard. You want to talk about fear? Put a seven-year-old on stage until she stammers, then runs off having wet herself because her mom stared at her when she forgot her lines.

I feared disappointing my mom because that’s when love hurt the most. Soon I feared anyone stronger than me, and silence was the easiest way to manage the fear. When grownups spoke to me, I gave them a blank stare, then they mumbled to themselves words like idiot and dullard.

This office is different from the others. None of that Zen crap, lavender incense, and miniature desk top waterfalls. This one is sunny and breezy, and the therapist is dressed in cut-offs and flip-flops. She pressed a button on her phone, and Bob Marley began streaming in the background.

“What’s going on?” she said, smiling politely. “How can I help?”

You tell me. Isn’t that what I’m paying for?

She typed on her laptop, followed by a quick glance. “Tell me about yourself.”

Like you care?

“Go on,” she said. “Where ever you want to start.”

How do I know where to start?

Anything I say, she’ll type on that laptop. She already knows what’s wrong with me. I can tell by the way she looks at me over the top of those glasses, so why tell me to go on? Who wears purple glasses, anyway?

I play with the ribbing on the edge of the armrest. How do they sew such tiny ribbing in a perfect line? She’s staring at me. She already knows what I’m going to say, so type it into your stupid computer already. Type idiot. Type dullard. Type what you’re going to type. Just stop staring!

“You know, everyone has fears,” she said.

Is that supposed to make me feel better?

“Do you have fears?”

Where do I start?

The woman typed on the laptop, then closed the lid and set it on the floor beside her chair. She leaned back the way grandma did when she told stories of the old country. Hands softly resting on her stomach, caring eyes, tender look. Grandma never spoke of acting classes or being loved too hard because everything in the old country was hard. They pushed through the hard things because they had no choice. There were no therapists in the old country.

“You’re not defined by what imprisons you,” the woman said. “You’re defined by your ability to break loose of what holds you back.”

Can I go now?

“You break loose the same way you break free of self-doubt. You keep doing the thing you’re not capable of doing until you master it, break free, and no longer fear it.”

She let her words marinate.

“I have no magic words or praise to boost your confidence,” she said. “Breaking loose comes from deep in your soul, when your insides scream, ‘enough!’ It’s then you find the power to free yourself, to push through and step outside.”

The woman leaned forward. “Tell me. Have you had enough?”

Nothing in me screamed during that authentic wakening. It was more of a…cry.

“I have,” I said, in a whisper that hushed the silence. “How do I start?”

“You just did.”

The setting sun on a crimson sky with streaks of gold, children playing on the road below her room’s balcony offered nothing interesting to Timmy, so she went back to her room. She slumped onto the sofa and scanned one social media application after another. Some posts on Artificial Intelligence caught her attention and she initiated a chat.

“How’s your day going?” the chatbot asked her. The conversation veered into questions about individuality like: “What is it that you like most about being a copy writer?” The question left her dumbfounded. The chat vexed Timmy more than providing her an escape from reality.

The next morning, when she opened her cupboard to get ready for office, she felt a voice in her head say: “These dresses are more Roohi’s choice than mine.”

Roohi, her former colleague, was so disciplined and erudite that she seemed nearly perfect — something Timmy could not believe. In two years, Roohi’s novel ideas helped generate business for the company and saw her sailing to a higher position than Timmy. In contrast, Timmy faced constant pressure from her superiors to improve her work — eventually forcing her switch to another agency.

At her new workplace, Timmy tried to create an impression of an erudite and disciplined worker. Despite that, she could not resist to mimic her colleagues on certain occasions, which left everyone in splits. In some months, tougher assignments followed and one of them seemed unassailable for her. “Paavani is ready with the survey data. I want you to prepare the client presentation,” the supervising manager told Timmy.

Timmy had never imagined the difficulty level of this new project. To make matters worse, the computer crashed. As the deadline approached, colleagues wondered why the creative department printer incessantly ejected pages of an old 150-page campaign. “I have been waiting for so long, but this printer is unstoppable,” Timmy spoke — ensuring her exasperation got noticed. She sought more time for the presentation on account of the glitches.

After office hours, Timmy called up her former colleague Pintu, asking him to come over to her house to help with the task.
“The office is burdening me with other people’s work,” she complained to him.

Timmy used all methods to accomplish the task but was more relieved about warding off the imminent rap from her boss by forcing devices to malfunction.

Later, on the festival of Dussehra, when employees celebrated, Timmy struggled with work. Creativity eluded her when she sat writing a promotion campaign for a health drink.

“Timmy, your copy this time needs to be in sync with the dimensions of the packaging design,” she heard Paavani say.

Despite the instruction, a mismatch occurred, and Timmy feigned ignorance about it. The incident resulted in a warning letter to her from her superior. To the constantly striving Timmy, it felt like a cruel step.

Her inability to take up bigger assignments relegated her minor tasks. Distressed, she caught up with Pintu over coffee.

Pintu could not help remarking that she no longer looked or behaved like herself. However, Timmy paid no heed to it and waited for that chance to inquire about Roohi. She expressed her disappointment at not being like her.

“Is that all you can offer to your career,” Pintu interrupted her.

“You aspire to be an imitation? A Roohi bubble, huh?”

“Remember, individual traits leave their signature on work…making it unique,” he exclaimed.

The question of what she is capable of doing well kept nagging her like a throbbing headache. The ways she employed to finish her official work made her feel small. It was well past midnight, but she continued to reread her exchange with the chatbot.

Timmy remained disturbed the entire night and many nights thereafter, until she decided to venture into meme development. This became a trademark of her life.

The group of pimply faced pubescents gathered around Breanna’s birthday cake. They weren’t her friends, just classmates her mother had invited. Breanna pretended not to see them now as they snickered and threw spiteful glances at her. She blushed and crossed her arms over her chest to hide the ever-growing buds developing long before any of her classmate’s. She was the first in her class to wear a bra, and the boys snapped it with juvenile mischief.

“Breanna, do you want to thank your guests for coming before they sing Happy Birthday?” her mother asked. Breanna knew her mother only hoped these could be her friends because Breanna spent most of her time home alone. Her mom also knew the phone calls Breanna chatted along to had no one on the other end.

Breanna put on a fake smile and thanked her guests for coming. Twelve candles flickered on top of the cake’s whipped frosting. Off-tune and squeaky voices half-heartedly sang the required song.

“Make a wish dear,” her mother reminded her.

Breanna watched eyes roll and mouths yawn. Surely, they were too old for making wishes. She squeezed her eyes shut and crossed her fingers for good luck. The air in the room seemed to inhale and exhale along with her.

“Breanna, what have you done?” screamed her mom, leaning over the cake.

Breanna peeked through the opened slit of an eyelid. A smile pulled at the edges of her lips. Bewildered tiny guests now stood inside bubbles at the top of her cake. Muffled cries shouted from wide-eyed faces while they curiously pushed against the bubbles in search of an escape.

It wasn’t exactly what Breanna had wished for. She simply wished to knock them down to size so they could see how they had hurt her. But this would work.

“Breanna, what the hell. Let us out!” yelled Tom. She picked him up and rolled the bubble in her hands, delighting in watching him tumble head over heels. She took pleasure in bouncing some on the floor and watching as they grabbed their heads after smacking the hard tile. She saved the best for Troy. He was the king pin of the class. She knew his fear of dogs, so she put him on the floor and let her dog Cujo sniff him. Troy’s eyes widened in fear as he flattened himself against the far side of the bubble.

“Remember setting me up with a fake boyfriend, Troy? Remember spreading rumors about my granny-style underwear?” Breanna sneered through the bubble and let it wobble closer to Cujo.

“Easy, Cujo,” Breanna said. “Just sniff. One nip and the bubble will burst, and I can’t control what you’ll do after that.”

“Please, Breanna. Call him off,” cried Troy.

“That’s enough Cujo. Good boy.” Breanna picked Troy up off the floor and lined him up alongside the others on the top of the cake. She had gotten their attention.

“Breanna, what are you planning to do?” asked her mother. She leaned against the table, her eyes darting from bubble to bubble.

“They deserve this,” said Breanna, her hands firmly planted on her full hips.

“Do unto others as you would have them do unto you,” reminded her mother.

Breanna’s face brightened. “I would want them to let me eat the whole cake!” One by one she popped the bubbles and put each guest down into the center hole of the angel food cake. They landed on each other with thuds and groans. “There, now eat your way out of it,” Breanna sneered. She watched them eagerly attack the cake, stuffing handful after handful into their mouths. Soon groans were heard as their stomachs distended and began to heave what they had eaten.

“What happens once they get out?” asked her mom.

With a shrug of her shoulders, Breanna said, “I doubt they’ll want dessert for a long time.”

The wasteland stretched past the horizon as a mournful silence rang across the land. A cascade of soft hues blanketed the empty terrain, sunbeams illuminated the planet, and hope seeped into the dirt in search of life.

“No matter how often I see it, it always reminds me of candy,” Mary said, stretching out her arm in a futile effort to grasp the colorful rays that swirled together like a lollipop.

“Don’t get too attached Mary,” Dan reminded her. “We’re here to collect our samples then return to the Sanctuary. Our orders were clear.”

“I know, I know. I’m just taking in the views before we get to work. You have your test tubes?”

With a subtle nod, Dan touched the front of his containment pod, eliciting a bright, white light from the thin casing to form a screen. “Screw-capped test tubes for substances A and B,” Dan instructed the AI system, SUDS.

In response to his commands, a blue streak of light emanated into the containment pod, vertically scanning a small area of space. The fabrication system constructed labeled, screw-capped test tubes from thin air, molding molecules into glass fragments, and then complete test tubes.

“The vials you requested Mr. Zanfield,” SUDS reported with a feminine voice, its sound waves fluctuating on the white screen.

“Let’s spread out from the others by two hundred feet then retrieve our samples. I’ll collect samples A and B, and—.”

“And I’ll collect samples C and D,” Mary remarked with a gentle smile.

The containment pods hovered above the ground, producing a slight buzz as they safely transported Mary and Dan across the terrain. Gradually, the vivid colors in the sky faded and morphed into a subtle blue as the sun shone in full view above the horizon.

Kneeling inside his containment pod, Dan excavated the rock and dust formations into his vials. The pod remained airtight against the noxious environment as it stretched into the dirt.

“It must have been a wondrous planet to live on,” Mary expressed as she retrieved her samples from the ground.

“It was at first. An oasis hidden away within millions of galaxies. But when the temperature rose to fatal levels, becoming uninhabitable, the Last Ones fled to the atmosphere’s outer reaches creating the Sanctuary.”

“You know — I despise the Last Ones. I’ll never understand how they let our planet become this,” Mary paused, gazing across the forsaken wilderness.

“You know the history. They were so engrossed fighting amongst themselves, that they couldn’t make peace and restore the planet’s stability.”

Mary lifted the filled containers into the pod after he spoke and directed the AI: “SUDS, run a comparative analysis between these vials and those on record, along with a full chemical diagnosis.” Once more, a thin, blue light appeared to scan the tubes. The fabrication system broke down the molecules, disintegrating them as easily as they had formed, till only sterilized oxygen remained. When the blue light retreated SUDS listed the acquired data, “pH: 5.8, Absorbed carbon: high, Chemical equilibrium: low,” and further results.

“Must have been an ocean,” Mary concluded, her gaze sweeping across the area in newfound wonder. The “ocean” spread out for miles with thousands of bacteria nestled within the topography and scarce traces of eukaryote life. “It’s healing. The pH rose again.”

“Only by point one though. Not enough to produce life.”

“It’s something.”

“Yeah, I suppose it is. We’ve waited thousands of years — we can wait a couple more.”

“What was the planet called again? Before The Reckoning?”

“Earth. A pity too — the Homo sapiens — the very creation and downfall of our former planet.”

Mary nodded in consensus, “Let’s go back to the Sanctuary. We’ll record our conclusions, run the necessary tests, and then—.”

“Back to cryosleep,” Dan finished with a heavy sigh. “Same old, same old.”

“Perhaps. But maybe next time, hope will return to Earth.”