Extra-Terrestrial 8's Wordsmithing

 Confusion

High in the sky, the scorching sun beat down upon me. I gazed outwards, towards the electric blue expanse of never-ending sky. The screech of a bird echoed around the barren sand dunes. I stumbled over a rock.  I found myself falling, then felt the hard impact as I went crashing onto the boiling sand. Shaking, I reached out to where, at my side my canteen hung. My bone-dry lips stretched out in anticipation, a few miniscule drips of luke-warm water trickled from the lid. I slowly dragged myself to my feet, and started trudging towards what looked like date palms, hazy in the distance.

The sun continued to climb higher and higher in the deep blue sky, growing hotter and hotter with every passing minute. Until it was unbearable.

I awoke with a start, sitting up so quickly that the world began to spin. Eventually I began to take in my surroundings, lush green trees everywhere, and the water of an oasis rippling in the breeze only a few metres away.

A movement from the foot of my bed bought my attention to young woman, who wore a long blue flowing dress yet, to my utter confusion, wore nothing on her feet. She looked up from her daydream, her piercing green boring into mine. Startled I looked away.

At that moment a man dressed similarly to the woman, wearing a puffy blue shirt and again no shoes, emerged out of the bushes.
“Oh good, you’re awake,” came his gruff voice.
“Hi,” I mumbled in reply. The man grimaced in an attempt to smile. That’s when I noticed the pinky purple scars that covered nearly every inch of his face. He bent over, retrieved my canteen that had been refilled, and handed it to me. Gratefully I pressed it to my lips, drinking it all thirstily.
“You will have to come with us now. We will take you to our elder,” came the gruff voice once again. I brushed back the covers, and slowly got to my feet.

They escorted me through the trees to small village, until we stopped at the foot of a large hut. The woman reached out a slender arm and rang an old brass bell, that swung next to the door. “Enter,” came a feeble voice from within.  Uncertain, I grasped the icy handle and strode inside, the door creaking shut behind me.

I found myself in a lengthy passageway, with only one grand wooden door. Cautiously I continued forwards, hesitating for one moment before opening it, and strolling in.

“CUT!!!”

Suddenly I was bathed in flashing light. Dazzled, I turned to the high blue chair with the words, DIRECTOR printed across the back, in silver lettering. In the chair sat a lanky man with scruffy black hair and an extremely bushy moustache.
“Great job David,” he said, with a broad smile spreading across his face.
“See you tomorrow, then,” I called over my shoulder, as I walked out of the studio, contemplating my next scene.

Beads of sweat trickled down my burning face. I swung the weightless racquet, like a knife, and felt the ball connect. It was an amazing feeling, watching the ball soar through the sky, before my fantasy was stopped short by an abrupt and sharp movement from my opponent. I was forced to retaliate with a sleek, but deadly, swipe to the left. He lunged, but the ball whizzed past the tip of his racquet. There was a subdued gasp from the audience, then a roar of applause bulldozed the atmosphere. My opponent narrowed his eyes, while getting ready to serve me a demon. He threw the ball up and, with the unerring skill of a pro, smashed it towards me.

I was right. It was a flyer. I sprinted to the other side of the court and lunged. My racquet connected, but my heart sank when I saw where the ball travelled. It looked all right at first, until it bounced on the doubles line. There was a scattered applause, that greatly resembled muttering, and my opponent smirked at me triumphantly. He got ready to repeat his serve, but this time I was prepared. I heard a thwack, and the ball was a suddenly a blur. It thumped as it hit the court. But I was ready. I brought up my racquet, took aim, and swung as hard as I possibly could.

There was a deathly silence. Nothing moved, nothing breathed. The audience, for once in the entire match, was completely quiet. I saw the ball wedged in the cage, and my opponent looked bewildered. My heart sank. I had overshot. I had lost. The match was over. It was all over. My breathing was slow and deep. For some reason, I was kind of excited, as if I had actually won. I laughed internally at this incredulous idea. The silence stretched on and on, until my legs buckled with exhaustion and I dropped to the ground like a toy soldier.

My opponent hopped the net and grinned at me, his hands in his pockets.
“Hard luck mate. Perhaps tomorrow you will do your back flip swing, and finally nail that power shot. You’ll need to, if you want to win the grand final!”
I grinned, pushed myself up off the ground, pulled my iPod with its recorded applause out of the speaker dock, and sauntered back inside towards the warmth of a shower.