NationStates • View topic - Dexter's Tennis Laboratory (2024)

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Taking center stage: an original short story by the national singles number 2

Editor's note: while Dextennis writers have worked tirelessly to provide extensive coverage of The Brightsands Boardwalk, we are pleased to present an original work of fiction by 2-seed Julian Hull, which ties into the recent round of 32 and upcoming round of 16. Off court, Hull is a science fiction author whose latest novella On Sail recently entered the New Croatan Times bestseller list.Eight Minutes
_{by Julian Hull}

All the generators are charged. Flashlights have fresh batteries. Plenty of blankets to go around, though that might not stop the electricity bill from blowing up. I scan the house while daylight still beams through. Only thing I need to do is start the car.

"Dad! Dad, did you hear? It just happened! They say it just happened!" my son barrels out of the living room, phone screen ablaze.

I turn the news away. "Yeah, I know, I got the alert. Let's go, we ain't got much time," I respond as I hurry us both out of the house.

The sky radiates the deepest, most foreboding shade of turquoise we’ll never see again. "So what, no tennis today? What about our tickets?" he hollers at me as we zip towards the driveway, rising panic quivering his voice. "Is this it… for, like, everything?"

We pause as we open the car doors. "We read the same thing, right?" I try to assuage him. "They said that when the Sun turns into a black hole, we’ll only have eight minutes of sunlight left. We’ll live, but you can do the math - Center Helm is fifteen minutes away! We’ll go later, maybe. Just get in and we’ll talk about it."

It takes light eight minutes to travel from the Sun to the Earth. So suppose you know, after much anticipation, that the great ball of light in the sky finally just went poof. That means you would only have eight minutes worth of sunlight left - before permanent nighttime. What would you do with those last eight minutes of sun?

I know what I’d do. I’d see the beach one last time. I’d bask in the heat and revel in shimmering waves until night falls forever.

But my son doesn’t get in the car. He stares off into the neighborhood, a lump forming in his throat. "Where else are we gonna go?"

With every iota of truthfulness I can radiate, I promise, "We’re going to see Mom." Thinking of anything else that might convince him.

He looks back at me, seemingly with approval, yet with panic still burning. He nods. "Alright, fine," he mutters, climbing into the passenger seat. "Eight minutes."

The neighborhood roads are disturbingly barren. Nobody is home. Where had they gone? The Sun store? I turn on the radio, expecting to hear the same astrophysicists as always regurgitating all the bad news for terrestrial life, climate conditions and renewable energy in the coming eternity without sunlight. Instead, I just feel bad for the only other person in the car. "In shocking national sports news, Boardwalk singles 4-seed Laila Love has gone down swinging in the round of 32 after a heartbroken run to the Jungle final. Now falling 2-6, 7-6, 7-9 to Caiden Molina in an instant classic, Love’s confidence may have been quaked by the Jungle -"

I switch to a classic rock station playing songs from when I was in college. "Huh, we could have seen that guy take on that grass specialist, uh… Jabari something?" I try to stave off the awkwardness, pulling up to an all-time traffic jam on the National Highway.

"No, that’s Cervantes, the grassie taking on Julian Hull. I think you’re thinking of, uh, Curtis someone. Yeah, Curtis West IV," junior corrects me, staring off at the endless line of cars gridlocked on the road.

"Oh. And Serrano, our homecoming queen, she’s still in it?"

The city limits are at the end of the block. People up and down are getting out of their cars. Tailgating. Setting up tables and tents and wearing these stupid little sunglasses they spent five bucks on just to wear once and throw out. Now I’m feeling crazed too.

"Yeah," junior answers. "She just beat Ochoa again. Kinda like how Camille Fletcher is playing Sabrina Craig again, but I dunno if it’ll go the same as in the Jungle though. Our other hometowner, McKnight, just lost in doubles to that ex-astronaut Avery Bentley and, what's his face, Jeff Ramos, I think."

My eyes, ears, nose and all my senses are transfixed on the clock. Six minutes of sunlight left. And the car has come to a complete standstill. Much like my attention to anything else.

"I’d really like to see Ulysses Bliss take on Michelle Keller, the 8-seed versus the 9th sounds like a sweet round of 16 match-up. I wish we could at least see Petersen and Green Jr., or the Waukesha sisters. That super fast wheelchair guy Rich VIII, I can’t believe he took down MG3 in the round of 32."

I manage my best ‘uh-huh’s and ‘yeah’s as small talk allows. The car still doesn’t move half a centimeter. "You know I, uh, I’m really sorry if we don’t go. We can still try but, uh, well… I don’t know if they’re still doing a tennis tourney with, you know, the Sun imploding. Although, I don’t see why not, stadiums have lights..."

The driver in front of us gets out and starts converting his ride into a campsite. Tarp stretched out from the roof with poles planted on the median strip, lawn chair, coolers and everything. I look at junior, maintaining the same expression of disbelief. "We gotta get out of here if we want to see Mom," I break even worse news.

As I turn off the engine and hightail it out of the driver’s seat, he glances around the back, seatbelt still buckled. "What about the car?" he bellows.

"Leave it, probably’ll still be here when we come back,” I beg him, standing firm on the median strip, ready to close and lock the door. "Five minutes left of sun. We can make it. But we got to go now."

He offers his best recalcitrant teenage groan, begrudgingly stepping out and slamming the door. "We could’ve seen Dunn and Whitehead," he grumbles, falling in line behind me as we march over to the sidewalk. "If we don’t at least see Strong and Booth at some point, I really hope we get to see Mom today."

I pat him on the back reassuringly, trying to do my best fatherly thing, whatever that is. "We will, even if it’s the last thing I do. Think I can hear her already, in fact."

In the midst of our final blast of scorching summer winds, I do - in fact - hear ocean waves crashing down like the world around us. We’re close, yet much too far. At that moment, the sky blackens.

We freeze. Immediately look up. The last sun-kissed swirl of tangerine cloud floats away.

We check on each other and move on, in our last reprieve of afternoon sun.

"I don’t get it," junior retorts, "so the Sun already collapsed into a black hole, but it's still shining here because it takes light that long to get to Earth?"

"Indeed. Which sucks for people on the other side of the world, where it’s already night. They probably have eight minutes left of moonlight," I reassure him. "But I guess what they say about all good things is universally true."

He kicks rocks under his feet like a petulant child. "Dumb Sun couldn’t wait one day before dying so we could sit on Center Pourt. You know the Carr siblings won their career start? Bet they wish there was still a Sun."

Mine is the first chuckle I’ve heard in months. "Bet they all do. Especially, who is it, Trevino and Stevenson? The Jungle doubles finalists trying to make a comeback? Or all the qualifiers that went 0-12 or something crazy like that."

Only a nod back, beneath his final beads of summer sweat.

I inspect my watch. Three minutes left. We’ve spent most of our last few minutes of sunlight stuck in traffic. How would that feel? To witness the collapse of all earthly light and energy while sitting bumper-to-bumper? The line of every single car anybody has ever owned, driven or manufactured in the entire history of the city just sits there on the National Highway, the world's most stubborn parking lot rusting in the rear view mirror of our footsteps.

But even through the steepest, most celestial fall to rumble the planet, hope still springs eternal. The pavement under tread finally turns sandy, with concrete slabs giving way to wooden planks. Hydrodynamic echoes of splashing waves beckon louder and louder as winds pick up and the squawk of seagulls point the way. A faint waft of ocean breeze lingers with increasing allure. Then - as our destination makes its greeting official - everything clicks in my son’s weary and exasperated eyes.

"Woah," he realizes, "it’s the exact spot we spread Mom’s ashes..."

She waves hello as sea foam crashes onto the shore, scurrying up to where high tide left its mark, cooling our shoeless feet as we slowly sink down. An endless expanse of coral white sand glistens all around, as though diamonds finely grounded enough to reflect back all the sunlight that ever existed. The last time we were here, we turned to face the wispy dunes with one hand on her urn, as we let the love of our life gently drift into a gray mist joining the aquamarine horizon behind us.

All the light in our world went out with hers. I mean, they can tell the Sun’s turning into a black hole but they can’t find a cure for cancer? Eight minutes was how long it took her to pass when we unplugged life support.

"She must've led us here," I stumble out my own bewilderment, junior and I embracing like it’s anybody's last hug ever. "She wants to watch the Sun blow up with us. Again."

With one minute left, we hang on. Letting the waves crash down around us. The wind whip in every direction. Birds caw and swoop down next to jagged seashells. What beauty the world still has left washes over us, down to its very last sunset.