Deb! Excellent!!!

Yay on clowns, Deb!

Sail, I love that. Poor kitty. I know just how he feels.

ita, both of yours were from an unexpected POV, and illuminating.

Hurrah for apocalyptic clowns!

Oh, and I think I figured out how to fix Lucy's story and make it something marketable. I had a burst of inspiration in the produce aisle yesterday. Not that my inspiration had anything to do with vegetables, I must hasten to add. Just that something about grocery stores (and showers) helps me think. Ima finish Anna's story first and then go back to it, but the two stories tie together very nicely--wouldn't it be great to have two linked books to sell?

El Drabblo and the Conquistador's Gold

It was the smile that said it first.

Oh, really?

The quirk at the corner, that widened into a toothy grin.

Do you think so?

Then the eyes, as the lids relaxed and his face went blank, like a shade drawing down.

Let's just see about that.

His fists said everything else.

Shorter than needed, but there ain't no more.

44 Clowns of the Apocalypse

Deb, I'm not sure if I'm remembering correctly, is this an anthology you were looking to get a story into?

Sail, yep. The story was "The Fourth Ring", a nice simple subversive little pro-choice story about a girl, an unexpected visit from a travelling circus, and a Bic lighter.

Yay! Clowns! Apocolypse! Also, Samurai! And, maybe, boxers!

That's all I got. For I am drunk. Sorry for the annoyance.

Well, the third base coach was tapping and flapping his hands like a madman, and the infield put on the shift. The third baseman stood at second, in case the runner at first tried to steal. The pitcher played with a couple of pickoff throws -- just a spin and toss, so the first baseman better be ready -- and settled in to face the lefty bat at home. The catcher studied the batter's feet, his hands, the angle of his hips, before shooting down a finger, touching his right thigh. He set up outside all elaborate, and then as the pitcher let go he hopped to his right to catch the inside fastball.

The batter had good wrists. He jammed his bat up, caught a piece of it, and sent the ball bounding into right field, just fair. As he dashed toward second, the runner saw a hand held up, Whoa, mouth forming the word, "Foul, foul." The third baseman, toe touching the bag, dropped his hands and looked idle, long enough for the runner to slow up, stumble to a stop. By the time he had figured out the deception, the ball was flying in from right field, and all the infield grinned at him. At first base, the batter fretted, his double stolen from him on a decoy. The first base coach patted him on the butt, consoling.

You can play the game if you're stone deaf. Ask Ryan Ketchner about it sometime. But, enunciate slowly, so he can read your lips.

Nutty, I love that piece the way I love Bull Durham.

For I do not love the baseball, and mention of it turns me into the Farside dog, "blahblahblah blah baseball blah, blah blahblahblah still baseball, blah blah."

But Bull Durham makes beautiful sense despite the baseball, and so does your drabble.

(laughnig my ass off at Nutty's drabble)

Because, unlike Bev, I muchly love the zen of baseball, and this made me happy like a happy thing.