No Runner-Up, by Garrette J.

A rhythmic tapping emanates from a closed, white room. Although the sound is hypnotic, a constant tensity is in the air. But, what is the cause of the feeling? It is nothing more than a mere white ball. A blur as it travels back and forth. It touches the table for just a second, as if it was a kiss, and then leaves again.

Flying through the air, it is struck back down, skimming the table yet again before it leaves. Constantly this pattern repeats hit, table, air, hit, table, air, until suddenly the hit becomes a striking blow. The pattern is changed, but the rhythm remains the same slam, table, air, slam, table, air. Seconds turn into minutes as the ball continues its travel unaware of any higher motives until suddenly, with a flick of a wrist, it spins off course. This time the pattern is broken; this time there is only table and air. The ball bounces to the ground no longer it’s pale white but instead a burning pink. After a few minutes, the lights turn off leaving nothing more than a glowing pink ball in the darkness. Outside the room there are no words only a single handshake, and why? Because in ping-pong, there is no prize for the runner-up.


Garrette J. can be defined by one word: Fedora. He’s suave and totally at ease with himself and everyone around him. His classic style is crisscrossed with moments of brilliance, utter hilarity, and deep conjectural thought. Garrette is the epitome of casual and formal, meshed together into something not quite ordinary.