• Jabe Stafford

One Page Worlds - Meatball Home Runs

A whole world on a single page!

The short story morsels of One Page Worlds are flash fiction adventures of all flavors. Every Wednesday will feature a complete story in one page, or the first page of what could be a novel or novelette.

Sharing the fun and geekery is the best part of writing! Please tweet or comment with your guesses on what genre, character, and job is central to each tale. Enjoy touring new universes each week with One Page Worlds!

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“Youthling,” I hissed at the child, “My earthly food is not target practice.”

Marinara sauce dribbled from her plastic bat onto her black and white striped shirt. She shoved sodden hair off her face the way a catcher removes a mask. “I ain’t sorry, Spirelli. Meatball home runs are a better use for the meatballs. Daddie’s business partners suck and he doesn’t support me.”

I set the steaming pan of seared meat orbs on the only open burner. "I'm sure he's overloaded, that's all." Flicking an eyejoint around, I peered out the kitchen doors into the dining space. One hundred fifty customers from all planets lounged in transparent chairs and feasted on earthly pasta arranged on invisible plates and tables. Most of them were Tercaton execs. Only the creatures and the stars in the spiral arm beyond the ship’s hulls were visible.

The youthling snatched at the pan’s handle with half her arms, but I caught it between two hands. “Your father Mr. Tercaton is right out there. He is the largest vendor of transparasteel in the spiral arm. He won’t share your whack-a-meatball stories with his wealthy friends. I need their business.”

I mixed a dash more spice into the sauce and added it to the pan, then tossed the meatballs well out of the youthling’s reach.

She walloped one of the orbs in a reach-across swing. “Fracha Tercaton breaks another record. First woman to shatter a baseball on-field!”

My eyejoints swiveled to stare at the meat and sauce that splattered in the center of the round window in the kitchen doors.

The wet thump drew Mr. Tercaton’s attention and he stood, seemingly on stars, then rushed toward the kitchen. He lowered his right shoulders and smashed the double doors off their hinges. “Stop that immaturity, Fracha. Leave Ms. Spirelli alone. Get out there and act like a Tercaton girl should. Your future is in management, not baseball.”

I speared him with my sharpest look. “Her future fans will know Spirelli’s meatballs as the tastiest target practice in the spiral arm.”

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