Through the Tennis Court
Rain drizzled, making the tennis court appear like an alien landscape—its neon grid glowing softly beneath the dim overcast sky. Beyond the chain-link fence, the city skyline of monolithic structures stood silent, the usual hum of life replaced with a disconcerting silence.
Rob played against himself. There was no opponent across the net, just an automated serving machine that spat balls out in unpredictable trajectories. The machine, named 'Tess', was a cutting-edge piece of technology, designed to emulate human unpredictability, sometimes even defying the very physics of the sport. But today, Tess seemed more erratic than usual.
Suddenly, mid-swing, Rob stopped. The ball whizzed past him. He stared at the net. The net seemed to shift and twist, warping and bending as if it were alive.
"Tess," he called, voice wavering, "Pause game."
The machine powered down with a whir. The silence of the court now seemed to echo. The glowing neon lines of the court began to pulsate gently, syncing with Rob's rising heartbeat.
From the corner of the court, a figure stepped out. Not a human, but a silhouette—part-shadow, part-reflection. It was a version of Rob but adorned in a vintage tennis outfit, one from the 1960s. It beckoned him.
"The game's not over," it said, voice echoing slightly out of sync, like a distorted radio transmission.
Confusion swirled in Rob's mind, a mix of fear and curiosity. "Who are you?"
"I am a potential, a possibility, an outcome of a game you never played," the figure replied. "In another time, another reality, we faced an opponent far greater than Tess."
Rob felt a shiver, his grip tightening around his racket. "What do you want?"
"To finish the game. Here, in this reality, you've forgotten the stakes, the meaning behind each swing and miss. But I remember."
A ball materialized in the silhouette's hand. Tossing it upwards, it served, the ball hurtling towards Rob with a force he'd never seen before. As he swung his racket in response, the court around them transformed. Buildings shifted and melted, the sky cracked open, revealing a vast cosmic playfield. The neon grid of the court extended endlessly in every direction.
Rob realized this wasn't just a game of tennis. It was a duel between realities, between potentials. Each volley, each hit carried the weight of decisions made and unmade, paths taken and untaken.
As the rally continued, Rob felt an understanding, an awakening. The city, the court, Tess—everything was an illusion, a construct. This game, however, was real. The outcome would determine which reality, which version of Rob, would persist.
Finally, with a mighty swing, the silhouette sent a blazing shot past Rob. The ball didn't just hit the ground; it dissolved the court, the city, and the very fabric of that reality.
Rob awoke in his apartment, the morning sun streaming through the windows. The familiar hum of the city returned, but Rob felt different, transformed. The weight of the game, the weight of choices and their infinite outcomes, lingered in his mind.
Picking up his racket, he headed out, not to the neon tennis court of his usual routine, but to the park, where real people played, laughed, and lived in the moment. The game with the silhouette had taught him one thing: reality was what he made of it, one choice at a time. Kaja Popko
