Hopscotch: Lost Loved Ones, Page 3

the current age of 30 years old.

  I feel I’ve lived much longer than that, from the experiences I’ve been through.

  It doesn’t feel right to open the box. The anticipation to receive the gift is now absent.

  I realize why. It’s a graduation present.

  And because I left school early, I was unable to finish my education.

  The gift will have insignificant meaning if I were to receive it now.

  I want to feel that gratifying sense of accomplishment. To feel I’ve earned Mom’s gift.

  After taking several educational tests, I enroll in college.

  I set my sights high, knowing with the proper drive I’ll quickly accomplish my goals.

  I complete my four year degree in two and a half years.

  It’s disappointing not being able to get a hold of Jim.

  And despite my best efforts, it’s a mystery what happened to Glen.

  The day after I finally receive Mom’s gift, I end up losing it again.

  It also seems this item is directing the path of my life.

  I see now where the glow comes from.

  It’s something I’ve wondered when reflecting on that moment in the train station bathroom.

  A crystal orb the size of a marble is placed at the center of two metal plates that form an X.

  The crystal stone has a grain of sand that gives off a brilliant glow.

  There’s a pure and uplifting presence to the item.

  Placing the ring from Jim into the jewelry box along with the matching one from the train station, my mind curses what I’ve inadvertently just done!

  The two rings become liquid like mercury and pool together.

  I reach in to snatch Mom’s piece of jewelry, afraid the metal plates might turn also.

  Unsure what to do, I close the box and lock it.

  The orb dims as I slip the awkward, folded up piece it into my pocket.

  Curiosity nags at me to open the box. In it I find an item like nothing you or I have seen before.

  While researching the newly formed metal components, which appear to be parts to a machine, a news report catches my attention…

  03: The First Two Rounds

  The contest downtown has live TV coverage.

  The participants and spectators are from all walks of life, and pack the downtown area.

  Live video shows a congressman defending against negative publicity spread by other cities.

  Curious to experience the popular event, I decide to go check it out.

  A teletype on the news report reads, “Rare heirlooms required for admission.”

  After gathering a dozen personal “trinkets” varying in value, I head out.

  The allure of participating in this trendy contest misconstrues my better judgment.

  I should have known better than to bring the two pieces formed from the melted rings.

  Considering the other stuff I have may be inadequate, I bring the two artifacts just in case.

  I stand at a greeting booth in a massive convention center, for contest enrollment. The admission screener pays little attention to the two prized pieces I present, after she rejects all the other ones.

  However each representative wears a small earpiece. Cameras monitor from everywhere.

  Someone sitting behind the scenes informs on who or what to accept.

  I’m accepted into the contest after reading a lengthy waiver document, and agreeing to its terms.

  For the preliminary challenge, I and two other participants dump our trinkets onto the ground.

  The three of us then choose eight items each from the mix of scattered objects.

  I grab my most prized possessions first, the reshaped rings that have formed into machine parts.

  Mom’s gift is with me and kept safe in my pocket.

  When the X plates are folded in, the grain ceases to glow.

  Any extra items that remain on the ground are to be left untouched.

  Soon I’m in the middle of the downtown city area, in the center of a blocked off street, standing in one of three connected squares traced from chalk. It’s reminiscent of a hopscotch outline.

  My opponents stand outside the squares to fling a woven pocket purse, filled with trinkets, at me.

  The rules allow me to move freely from one square to the other.

  Because the single purse flies so quickly, I haven’t the time to dodge it.

  Instinctively I catch it. But by doing this I have now lost the match.

  My enthusiasm is defeated now as well.

  Checking the contents in my purse, the artifact comprised of the two rings is missing.

  “Anyone here have an extra item that looks like a small piece of machinery?” I announce.

  One of my opponents informs “Listen up son. When you lose the match, the item of most value is lost. The only way you’re gonna get the item back is to win five more matches in a row, or move on to the other challenge.”

  Standing outside the stadium at a ticket booth, I scan through the second lengthy disclosure.

  A particularly upsetting portion of the contract stands out.

  Knots in my stomach tell me something’s not right about all this.

  However I don’t see how anyone can hold me to this contract. I need to get the artifacts back. It’s uplifting to read that several additional pieces, which coincide with the two initial portions, can be gained through success in this next challenge.

  I block out the noise of the crowd when entering the supply room of the giant warehouse, located adjacent to the packed stadium where spectators have gathered to follow my progress.

  The moment I step into the first receiving area I feel queasy.

  My muscles ache and my body feels drained of energy.

  My sinuses congest with pressure and pain. I imagine a vice grip is tightening around my skull.

  It’s like sandpaper when I try and swallow. I dread each time I try.

  With watering eyes, I wonder how I’ll ever pass this next round under these circumstances.

  Weapons of all sorts, defensive gear, first aid, and tactical equipment stock the utility room.

  My physical concerns direct me to find antihistamines. I locate flu medications, and inhalers.

  I go with a liquid formula labeled as non-drowsy and take as directed.

  The second item I choose is a semi-automatic shotgun equipped with a 50-round drum.

  Next a backpack. Then a pair of thermal goggles. Lastly a tactical bayonet.

  Suited up and ready to go the adjacent door clicks unlocked.

  Already my symptoms seem non problematic.

  “You may proceed to the next area when ready, Lt. Garrison.” a soft female voice responds over the built-in audio system. Taking in an exhilarating breath, I precede through the doorway.

  The room’s walls have an iridescent glow, while the rest of the warehouse is blocked off.

  A treadmill-like surface covers a circular diameter at the middle of the floor.

  “Please make your way to the room’s center” the feminine voice requests.

  Doing as I’m told, I then wait.

  Looking back at the softly glowing wall I notice the doorway is gone.

  To get a closer look, I try walking back.

  The track moves in the opposite direction at my pace.

  I walk faster, then jog, and run…while the track adapts.

  The room’s lighting dims to pitch-darkness.

  I stop to gain my bearings and spot a thick, green-glowing beam some distance away.

  There is no reflective light among the darkness.

  The beam approaches at the rate at which I move.

  Standing still, the beam’s movement hastens.

  I gauge whether to duck or jump assuming the object is solid. I jump.

  It’s not soon enough. The joist’s soft surface knocks my feet out from under me.

  I somersault down onto a non-visible padded mat.

  P
icking myself up I turn to find the hurdle re-approaching.

  Accurately gauged, I run and slide smoothly below it.

  The image disappears the moment it’s cleared.

  Two beams appear in the distance, moving opposite of one another, and are gaining quickly.

  I advance, misjudge, and while in midair I’m struck in the stomach.

  My ribs push inward. A tearing pain cuts into my lungs.

  I’m forced backward and my head bounces after smacking against the ground.

  Disoriented, I force myself to hurry to my feet from fear of being struck again.

  Still gasping for air with the wind knocked out of me, the two beams approach.

  My timing is on point. They intersect waist high as I flop to the ground.

  The challenges disappear and a set of four new obstacles emerge.

  As they get closer I realize the surface of each is covered with golfball-sized knots.

  Their dim glow makes them difficult to see.

  When the two middle beams intersect, the front beam is positioned at ground level, while the back beam is at my head’s height.

  The ground is uneven and hazardous to move along.

  Treading carefully over the loose rocks and jagged, fixed formations, I struggle to keep from miss-stepping.

  Envisioning how to pass this challenge, my only fear is personal error.

  I leap onto the waist-high front beam, spring over the top beam, and tuck in for the landing.

  The beams disappear once cleared.

  The pitch black area becomes a snowy terrain with freezing gusts.

  On my descent I roll through a bitter snow drift.

  The harsh winds blast like sand against my exposed skin.

  A violent thumping from overhead gets louder and draws closer.

  Peering above through the white storm I spot a descending helicopter.

  A florescent-orange rope drops a few feet away.

  A man bundled in white camouflaged snow gear rappels from the hull.

  I draw my shotgun, push forward on the safety, and prepare to squeeze the trigger.

  “You need to come with us!” the thick towering man roars.

  The thumping blades slow as I process the