Backyard Baseball

The first time he accidentally hit his ball over their wall, he thought it was gone for good. He wasn’t even sure anyone was home. Within minutes, though, it came sailing back to him.

The second time he was again playing alone, throwing the ball up then quickly getting both hands on the bat to try to hit the ball.

His friends weren’t interested in American baseball.

“Too many rules,” they would say. “Strikes? Balls? Three of one and four of the other? It makes no sense.” “Where’s the wicket?”

Anyway, the second time he whacked the ball over the wall, he worried, but the ball was gently tossed back. Right to him. He wondered as he caught it, could they see him?

The third time he had been distracted by the noise coming from behind the wall. Laughter — odd, grunty laughter, but laughter nonetheless. Boisterous shouts in languages he didn’t know.

He inched his way closer, listening. He hit the ball the other way. Until he hit directly over the wall.

A silence settled on the other side. The ball did not come back.

The door opened and a tall gentleman in formal attire called to him, “Is this your ball?”

He went to retrieve it but the man didn’t hand him his ball. He ushered him in.

The boy heard the door lock behind him.

“Three strikes and you’re out,” said the man.

The boy looked at the odd array of monsters approaching him. His heart squeezed inside.

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This is my submission for the Unicorn Challenge. The challenge is easy: write no more than 250 words and use the photo as a prompt.