The Tennis Chronicles, Ch. 1: The Prologue

by J.A. Allen

Chapter One: The Prologue

In the tradition of other works of fantasy legend like King Arthur and his remarkable weapon Excalibur, Tennis Chronicles weaves a tale of mystery surrounding a magic racket trapped in a mythical hard court.  Who will free it and take possession of its magic powers?  Who will win the heart of the heroine Susie Queue? 

Susie Queue sat alone, transfixed on the edge of her bunk, biting her lip, staring out the window at the pristine lawns and the tennis courts lining the property’s boundaries.  Tears welled in her eyes as she relived the horrible fight she’d had with her volatile, wild-haired, Russian coach Mad Marat.

Marat had been her coach since her arrival at GrandSlam Academy. Susie was an orphan, abandoned on Practice Court No. 1, one of the busier courts in Flushing Meadows. Eventually, she had found her way here.

He had yelled at her, calling her lazy and slovenly—whatever that meant. She kept meaning to look it up but feared the explanation would make her angrier. She flopped onto her back and stared up at the ceiling, plotting her revenge. 

Arsenic? No! 

Photos of him and his newest conquest—Aries Beaucoup—the southpaw from Argonne.  Susie had seen those French hands in action unobserved. She smiled. 

The exposure would make life miserable for Marat...maybe...

Pondering, she gathered the strands of her long red hair, twisting them into knots, tying them loosely around her fingers. By the time the phone rang, she was hopelessly tangled, actually uprooting some strands as she dived for the phone she kept hidden under her pillow.

Cells were forbidden except on weekends—damn! What if she got caught? 

Mad Marat would have her tossed out on her pretty, petite ass!  Pronto – You betcha!

Her boyfriend Fernando was breathing heavily and speaking with a thick tongue. 

“Thuzey? Dat you?”

“Yeh, big boy. What is the matter with you? You sound funny.”

“Dentist—Can’t talk worth thit! I got the thuff though. We on?”

“No—damn it! Mad Marat grounded me. I am stuck here tonight. He will be watching me with his eagle eye!”

“Theet—I cannot wait longer!”

“Well, suck it up—cause I cannot escape tonight!”

She held the phone away from her ear as he split the air with four-letter expletives.

Out of the corner of her eye, Susie saw the doorknob turn and alerted Fernando—shutting down and sliding the phone out of sight in the nick of time. 

Rolling over quickly, she put her face next to the wall, pretending she was asleep.  Annoyed, she suddenly realized that she could not see who had entered the room. 

She could hear someone moving about—opening drawers carefully, looking for something.

"What?" she wondered.

Finally she decided to turn ever so slightly so she could peek out, stretching as she moved. 

As she did, someone grabbed her and covered her nose and mouth with a slightly moist cloth. The acrid smell hit her at once. Then she felt herself sinking and sinking…the world began to recede as if in slow motion. 

She felt herself spiraling down—like you do sometimes when the room begins to spin after too much celebration. Someone lifted her and carried her as she faded away into black.

Later, in a groggy state she could hear voices. There was a definite female voice with a sumptuous French accent alongside a very strong Russian voice shouting out marching commands and someone else who kept screaming “Thit! Thit!” 

Slowly, Susie began to come out of her quasi-inebriated state, with a dead tongue headache and blurred vision. She had not felt this bad since the time she tried to match Fernando shot for shot downing straight Stoli. This was, of course, during the offseason.

She did not recognize where she was but it was obviously an old abandoned tennis court—a court lined with dead flowers and desiccated foliage. The skeleton of a linesperson stood frozen with an arm over its face, as if protecting itself from some flying missile.

The umpire’s chair sat abandoned with the steel framework of the vanquished umbrella chiseled red with rust.  

The stands were empty, of course, covered with intricate twisted vines and enormous silken webs. It reminded Susie of the images she’d conjured while reading her homework assignment of Great Expectations and the home of the tortured Miss Haversham whose life was ruined by a jilted lover.

In the center of the court, however, was a vision she could not make out clearly at first. It was as if someone had thrown a grenade onto the court causing a huge molten explosion. The mass of liquid turf had molded itself around a tennis racket protruding from the ground, frozen firmly in place by the reconstituted surface.

The racket appeared golden, bathed in refracted light from the abandoned skylights.  It seemed to glow from within. Did she imagine it humming?

She became aware of movement in the obscure shadows just beyond the racket tableau. Her cloudy vision began to clear.

Suddenly, there in the center of the court with Marat shouting profanities was Fernando trying to wrestle the racket loose from the iron grip of the court.

“You call yourself a tennis player? Your form is all wrong.”  Mad Marat lifted his arm perfectly upward and brought it down across Fernando's face. The striking force sent Fernando flying backwards landing heavily on his back...

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by J.A. Allen

[Stay tuned for: Chapter Two: The Marat Mystique Revealed]