GWC '24 #2: The Trial

A Trial to decide Christopher's future. Everything is going to go just fine, right?

This is my second entry into the Gibberish Writing Competition, judged by

Scoot

and

Sara Dietz

. Thanks so much for all you do! This is a three-part competition. You can find the first part here and the next one will publish a couple of weeks.

Modified from Image by Arek Socha from Pixabay

Christopher bounced on the balls of feet in the entry bay, waiting to enter the Trial. The next couple of hours would determine his entire future. Adrenaline coursed through his thin frame as he waited for the door to open. He had no idea what his Trial was going to be; they were different every year. He only knew that there would be an intellectual challenge to get out through Door #1. That door led to the college track and his dream of being a rocket engineer.

Standing there now staring at the walls, wondering where the entry was, he didn’t even think about Door #2; that door led to trade school, which was fine and all but not what he wanted for his life. That door required a physical challenge of some type, which he wouldn’t be able to complete anyway. He did, however, think about Door #3: the failure door that led to banishment from the colony at the ripe age of twelve. That door made the sweat stick his shaggy brown hair to his scalp.

He grasped his St. Christopher medal for strength and prayed he would do well. He had been preparing for this day for the last six years of his young life, and he was fully prepared. His small stature might keep him out of trade school, but his keen mind made him a whiz at puzzles; he was sure he was up to whatever the Trial threw his way.

The waiting dragged on. Christopher was just starting to wonder if something had happened to delay the test when a siren blared in his ear. “Prepare for entry,” came a calm computerized voice, “in 3, 2, 1.”

The floor fell out from under Christopher and he plummeted into a small hexagonal room below with a small yelp, landing on a soft, almost bouncy floor. He took a few deep breaths to recover from the shock and surveyed the rather dim surroundings. The ceiling had closed up behind him, leaving a smooth surface. Three of the walls were covered in palm-sized squares, alternating around the room with doors labeled with red numbers. Christopher immediately went over to Door #1.

There was a lock in the door, so he must need a key. He started to look around the frame for clues. He was about to abandon this line of pursuit when a small line of bumps at the top corner caught his eye. No time to spare. His heart pounded as he followed the bumps in between squares, zigzagging back and forth. He felt along the wall where the bumps ended for anything unusual. A grin spread over his face as one square yielded to his touch, popping out a drawer in return. He took a breath to steady his trembling hands, then slowly pulled out the long skinny drawer.

Inside was a small box with a combination lock. Three numbers. Christopher began looking around the room again for clues. Where was it? Keep looking, it’s here somewhere. Is it on that vent by the floor? On the ceiling? After what felt like way too long, he found at the bottom of the frame for Door #3 two lines at an odd angle to each other. That must be it, he thought to himself, but what does it mean. He turned his head this way and that, looking at it from different directions. His spinning made it feel like the lines were moving with him. And it clicked: a clock. It wasn’t clear which was the hour hand and which the minute, but after fiddling with a few combinations, the lock opened with a satisfying whirr. Inside was a key – the ticket to his glowing future.

His breath caught in his throat. He had done it. He was going to get to study to be an engineer. He said a silent prayer of thanks, and picked the key up out of its little tray. But his fingers were too sweaty. The key slipped out of his hand. Bouncing, bouncing, bouncing across the floor. Christopher dove for it, but too late. It bounced through the vent in the wall.

Christopher stared in disbelief. This couldn’t be happening. He had solved the puzzles. He had completed the challenge. He should be able to open the door now. Instead, he was looking at his future, as far out of reach as the key.

Think, he told himself, this is just another puzzle you have to solve. He looked at the vent and saw bolts at either end. He tried turning with first his hands, then the key box, then his shoe, yielding no results. Abandoning that, he tried threading his St. Christopher medal necklace through the slots, but the chain was too thick. He looked over his assigned jumpsuit for any strings that could be removed. Nothing. Not even shoelaces.

Feverishly, he searched the room over. Push this square. That square. There had to be something. There had to be. This couldn’t be the end.

With a sigh of deepest despair, Christopher collapsed on the floor. He was sprawled, staring into the grate that had eaten his opportunities. Everything that he had trained for. Everything he had worked for. Gone. Just like that key.

As he lay there, he saw his future forming before his eyes. He would be assigned to be a plumber. Of course he would be. He would go to plumber school and learn to plumb with others who went out Door #2. He would spend the rest of his life dealing with other people’s poop. And it was no more than he deserved for wasting his chance.

Not that you can get out Door #2 anyway, said a nasty little voice in the back of his head. You’re too weak. Always have been. You might as well walk out Door #3 right now and save yourself the trouble.

Shivering, Christopher turned to face the red #3. That future swam up from the dark corners of his soul, the ones that only show up in nightmares. The separation from his family, leaving everything and everyone he had ever known. Having to find somewhere in the lonely galaxy to carve out a new life for himself. The room began to feel stuffy, too stuffy. He began to feel lightheaded. The vent of doom was not even deigning to give him some cool air. Christopher sat down again heavily, sweat pouring off his face. His heart pounded in his chest. He stuck his head between his knees, praying that he wasn’t going to pass out.

Get it together, he thought, panicking never helped anyone. Breathe in. Breathe out. He said a decade of the rosary. Heart slowing down. At least he wasn’t concerned now that he would die of a heart attack instead of being banished.

With his mouth set, he resolutely turned toward Door #2. He may have never had the strength to complete a physical challenge before, but he had to have the strength now. There was no other choice. Life as a plumber in the colony would be better than banishment. And he was not about to give up without at least trying.

He went over to the door to examine it. In their training in school, the physical challenges had usually been really obvious – a climbing wall, a pool of water to cross, something heavy to lift. This just appeared to be a door. A door without a lock or handle, Christopher thought. How do you open a door like that? Then he saw a seal of a different material around the edge – some kind of hard plastic.

With a wrench in his stomach, he realized what the challenge was: he was going to have to break down the door. He stared down at his skinny arms and legs in despair. How much force was going to be required to do that? He pushed against the door with his palms on the off chance that that would work; the door stood firmly in its place. He had no idea what kind of material was holding the door there, but every science nerd knows that force = mass x acceleration.

Armed with this knowledge, he knew he needed to get up as much speed as possible to make up for his puny size. Agility was his one physical attribute that he could count on, so he crossed to the opposite side of the room. He hyped himself up for a second and ran full out with his shoulder into the door. He crashed back onto the floor, thankful this time for its bounciness. The door had not budged.

Undaunted, he hopped back to his feet for another attempt. And another. His arm was really starting to hurt now, but he had to keep going. On his fourth attempt, he tried to push off from the wall to get a little extra speed. Still no luck.

Over and over he tried, sometimes pushing with his arms, sometimes kicking the door. Even when he felt like he really injured his shoulder, he pressed on. Again and again. Finally, exhausted, he fell in a heap at the foot of the door, hot tears pouring down his face as he beat feebly with his bruised fists against the ever unyielding door.

“God, why would you do this to me?” he cried out. He would never be able to get through that door. He simply didn’t have the strength. He had never had the strength. He was a failure.

Drying his eyes, he got to his knees to finally admit defeat. His St. Christopher medal swung out from under his collar. He watched it swing back and forth, momentarily mesmerized. The giant of a saint held The Christ Child on his shoulder, carrying him safely through troubled waters. I was named wrong, he thought, tears pricking his eyes once again. You always had the strength I’ve never had.

Then a voice seemed to float up from the back of his mind. Not the nasty one, but a calm, reassuring one so unlike his own: Then let me share some with you.

Trembling, Christopher got to his feet. His legs could barely support him. His arms felt like rubber. His shoulder couldn’t take another hit. Yet, he knew that this time it was going to work. He took a deep breath and with a guttural roar of all the ages, he slammed into the door which crashed to the ground under his weight into the brightly lit room beyond.

Blinded by the sudden light, Christopher put up a shaking arm to shield his eyes. A graying man in a lab coat hurried forward. “Christopher, great work! I am your Trial administrator. I watched the whole thing. What a masterpiece!”

“You were watching,” said Christopher blearily.

“Of course. Come right this way to recovery. You’ve been through quite a lot. Your aptitude test won’t be until tomorrow, so you can rest.”

“Oh yeah,” said Christopher, his heart sinking once again, “The test for what trade I’ll get….”

“Trade? No, of course not. You’re on the college path for sure. Like I said, we saw the whole thing. That strength – to bust down the door, to never give up. We were all astounded. Congratulations, son, you have great things in store for you.”

Shaking the administrator’s outstretched hand, Christopher could only answer with a dazed, “Thank you.” But not to the man, to the one who had given him strength when he had none.

Word Count: 1922