Magic Hate-Ball [FICTOID]

He wrote his stories using his Magic 8-Ball™. 

Every time he came to a crucial plot point, he asked the 8-Ball a question and interpreted the answer:

“Should Susan go to the prom with Dexter?” / “Without a doubt.”

“Should Jean tell Betty about her suspicion?” / “Best not tell you now.”

“Will Jenny win the big race?” / “Better not count on it.”

The Magic 8-Ball sped up his writing, giving it a fresh and unpredictable quality.  Though only sixteen, he already wrote and sold three young adult novels with the ink drying on the contracts for three more.

His life should feel perfect; if so, why did he feel so miserable?

Part of the reason was the lack of a challenge.  With the Magic 8-Ball the stories practically wrote themselves.  Just come up with a list of names and situations then let fate / karma / destiny / pure dumb luck do the rest.

Does the 8-Ball resent me? he wondered.  It does all the work yet I get all the credit.

Recently he noticed the answer “Reply hazy, try again” popping up more and more.  He started finding notes he wrote earlier about key plot points; good points, but utterly forgotten -- and along with that forgetting, any original fire or enthusiasm for them.

Am I losing my mind? he wondered, then it abruptly dawned on him that’s exactly what the muses would want him to think.  A purely random story poses a threat, it disrupts the ebb and flow of audience involvement.

No, better to steer clear of that.

And with that he walked over to his balcony’s glass door, slid it open, and dropped the black sphere 58 stories.

It fell swiftly, disappearing from view almost instantly, pausing only long enough to catch the attention of a sixteen-year-old girl on the 14th floor before hitting the sidewalk at 63mph and shattering in a spray of plastic and dark blue alcohol.

The girl, a mathematical genius, instantly figured out which floor it fell from by mentally calculating the splash radius, and in less than five minutes knocked on the young boy’s door to find out why he was dropping Magic 8-Balls on such a balmy day.

The sixteen-year-old author took one look at her and forgot all about writing.

© Buzz Dixon