Castaway
A long way from home
There were five alerts competing for his attention. Loudly. The most urgent of which indicated his bio-monitor was no longer functioning. Which probably had something to do with the large crack in his visor that should have killed him instantly, but against all odds he was still breathing.
Taking in his surroundings he was struck with how unfamiliar it all was. The reddish tinge to the dirt, the moisture in the air, and the two suns on the horizon. He didn’t like the conclusion but he came to it anyway.
He was no longer on the moon.
About the Creator
Claire Jones
On a journey to find the right words.
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Peanuts and Crackerjack
Bottom of the ninth inning. The game is tied with two outs, two strikes and a man on second. I tap the bat on home plate. The rigid vibrations it creates reminds my aching digits that this isn't over. The practice swing only adds to the heft of mental burnout... Man on second, willing to chance it. Pitcher eyes him but doesn't give in to the dangerous bluff. I kick up dust, readying the peculiar stance I've had since the days of little league. The bat lays stiff upon my cramping shoulder. Pain has no reason to be acknowledged; it's a fleeting afterthought. The sun sits passed high noon, but the stadium lights are on anyway. They trick my brain into believing they are the cause of this sweltering heat. Sporadic clouds are motionless, they too, don't want to miss this exhilarating predicament. Anticipating the next pitch, intensifying roars from the crowd rumble the stadium... Behind me, the crafty catcher adjusts his stance and spits to the dry dirt. Behind him, the staunch umpire doesn't flinch or even blink; he knows how important his call will be. The pitcher winds up, his grip tells me its gonna curve. The release is fierce! Beads of sweat from his hair and face disperse in every direction as the force of his might is unfailing. My left leg lifts—an instinctual move that will increase the power of my swing. It's all down to my two, bloodshot eyes. They lock onto the speeding, white dot as it instantly becomes the target I intend to destroy. The swing is late, but I manage a solid tip. The ball is taking a fast bounce toward the pitcher who is recovering from the almighty throw! Man on second leaves in a desperate rush! I fling the bat to the side with a sense of urgency and make a mad sprint to the only destination I have—first base. Three defenders race inward to be the first to retrieve the skidding ball. Man is almost on third! I watch the open glove of my adversary, wondering if I’ve done enough to win this race. I switch my attention to his eyes, looking for a clue, some kind of reaction that tells me the ball is in the air and heading his way. All I see is frustration. The deafening roar of the crowd spikes! Something happens that I can’t see! My opponent abandons his post right as my left stride touches the bag. I waste no time turning my head to see the pitcher laying on his stomach, pounding the mound with an open glove. He misses the opportunity to out me and the ball has quickly bounced past him. Excitement grows! This isn’t over yet... It's become an imperative fight to tag out the runner heading homeward. The catcher falls to his knees in obvious despair as he watches my teammate make the run of his life. He knows it’s going to be close when he sees the shortstop fumble the ball a second too long. I jump up and down with no plans on leaving first base. All my chips are on the speed and agility of the active runner. His cleats dig into the dirt, trailing a dust-filled cyclone from the rapid and strenuous strides. With a thrusting dive and an outstretched arm, he lands on his chest to begin the crucial slide to home plate. The shortstop fires the ball to the catcher! It immediately begins closing the gap! Nail-biting doesn't begin to describe the anxious vibe permeating the stadium. The bench begins to celebrate even before he reaches the plate. Forty thousand cheering fans reach maximum crescendo, filling the air with a glorious sound. Everyone knows how this story will end… My teammate is met by the entire bench as his fingers inch across home plate, instantly followed by the unmistakable motion of the catcher's glove attempting to tag him out—its milliseconds too late. The ump swings his arms outward, officially calling him safe.
By Lamar Wiggins4 days ago in Fiction
A bit of a tortured soul
Sure thing! Here's a story about a guy named Jake who's a bit of a tortured soul: So, there's this dude, Jake, who's always got this heavy vibe about him. You know, the kind of guy who's always carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. He's got this haunted look in his eyes, like he's seen things most people can't even imagine. See, Jake had a rough childhood. His parents split when he was young, and he ended up bouncing around foster homes. He never really felt like he belonged anywhere, and that left a mark on him. As he grew up, Jake struggled to find his place in the world. He drifted from job to job, never really finding something that lit a fire in him. He had this restlessness, like he was searching for something, but he didn't even know what it was. On the outside, Jake seemed like a regular guy, cracking jokes and hanging out with friends. But deep down, he was wrestling with all these demons from his past. It was like he was carrying this invisible burden that no one else could see. But then, one day, Jake stumbled into this art class. He'd never been into that kind of thing before, but there was something about the colors and the shapes that drew him in. He started painting, pouring all his emotions onto the canvas. And you know what? It was like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. Through his art, Jake found a way to express all the pain and turmoil he'd been holding inside. He started to find some peace, and people started to see a different side of him. Sure, he still had his moments of darkness, but there was a glimmer of hope in his eyes now. He realized that he didn't have to be defined by his past, that he could create something beautiful out of all the chaos inside him. So, Jake kept painting, and with each stroke of the brush, he chipped away at the walls he'd built around his heart. He was still a bit of a tortured soul, but now he had an outlet for all that pain. And in the end, that made all the difference for him. Hope that story hits the spot for you!
By Moh Amirullah6 days ago in Fiction
Comments (2)
This would be great as a longer form sci-fi thriller!
I want to read the rest of this story!