Written for Sunday Photo Fiction. A story, about a slight miscalculation in the proper bait to use, begins after the photo.
Genre: Science Fiction/Humor
The Perfect Trap
Splork looked down through the port hole in the bottom of the spaceship, hovering in complete silence just above the street between pecan trees. Their ship was fully stealthed, making it invisible to radar and human eyes alike. Though their position was quite undetectable, Splork felt antsy. “Are you sure this is going to work?”
“Of course it is,” said Spinth, leaning his head back in his upper pair of hands. “The people of Earth love Futbol. The sport is played across the planet.”
“So this will work as bait?” said Splork, looking dubiously at the soccer ball.
“Absolutely. Most likely, a human child will see it and pick it up. He’ll be directly beneath our transporter, and then we’ll beam him up. The perfect trap!”
“So, what does Dr. Skorth want with a human child anyway?”
Splork gnashed his mandibles with anxiety. “No! He won’t spray perfume in their eyes will he?”
“I doubt it.”
“Use them for radiation leak testing?”
“No, silly! Where do you get these ideas?”
“You hear about animal testing all the time, and I hate that. I’m a full member of PETA, you know.”
Spinth rolled in the tub so his other fins could get some water. “If you must know, he wants to know if humans can be trained to operate starships. It’s intelligence testing.”
Splork sighed with relief, then returned to analyzing the data screen. “I still don’t understand why we went back in time to 1962.”
“I don’t know. Something about burgeoning human interest in space travel.”
Splork watched a pickup truck run over the soccer ball. His analyses of human sports was producing anomalies. He pointed to the bait. “So that’s a football, right?”
Spinth sighed. “I’ve done my research, Splork. It’s a futbol.”
“You sure that’s not a soccer ball?”
“Of course not! Nobody plays soccer in Amarillo, Texas, especially not in 1962! You gotta use an American futbol.”
“But the spelling is…”
“Just relax, Splork! It’ll work.”
Splork sighed and watched another pickup run over the ball. He settled in for a long wait.
Each week, Alastair Forbes sacrifices one of his own photos for the greater good, and writers from around the world are impelled to write flash fiction based upon it. Good here and have a look at what other writers have imagined from the photo: http://sundayphotofictioner.wordpress.com/2014/07/20/sunday-photo-fiction-july-20th-2014/