The Jinx gods, jealous of the Greek gods, took great credit for the sundry bizarre turnabouts in the helter-skelter activities that were manifesting themselves in those few moments of sporadic frenzy lurking inside the womb of stillness when ninety-nine percent of fanatics, mortal-players, cigar-smoking owners who fancied themselves as antebellum buyers of flesh before becoming CEO's of corporations, owners of countries, thought the thing was; forgetting the great Yogi's saying "It's not over till it's over.", and even though the Greek gods (out of mischievous forethought and a bit of revenge for a once playful thing turning into a monopoly of greed) turned everything on its head many many times--like having a ball being swallowed up by a grotesque hand only to have it thrown up into the stands for a glorious Homer or whispering in the ear of a mound mortal that it was the proper time to throw a change up to a guy who could not hit a fast ball to gleefully see the little sphere disappearing among scurrying fanatics or convince a boss of the cave that it wasn't a bad idea to have his three mortals dancing by sacks to run for the next sack while the limbmortal was being given permission to kill the little pellet ,"run and hit", that could do a variety of gyrations --but even they, the Greek gods, were a bit bewildered at the shocking events that fell into their eyes that day when the Jinx gods had a mighty hand in the doing during the Nineteen Fifty-one playoff game between the Brokenland Trolley Dodgers and the Shaft-the-Indians-out-of-Manhattan Polo-grounder Giants.
Fanatics still blink at all the weird happenings that lead to the great massacre; not aware that the manager of the Brokenland team insisted on putting a pitcher overtired while attempting to stop a thirteen-game lead from going over the abyss while the "Shafters" had a little signal-stealer spying from the clubhouse to see how many fingers the guarder of the pentagon was flashing; knowing the third flash of fingers was what the mound mortal was going to attempt to throw and transmitting that info to the head cavedweller, "The Lip", who promptly relayed that to the third-base mortal coach, who then went into a bunch of frenzy-like movements that was a small language understood many times by clubmortals and those mortals hanging around sacks. The pellet was flung by the tired arm and it was sent flying into the left pasture's overhanging stand full of fanatics; ending the game with the Polo-grounder's overcoming their two run deficit. Play ball - Isle of Joy!
All Jademyst.com submissions displayed are the legal property of their respective authors, and as such cannot be duplicated without permisssion of the author.
In other words, plagiarism=bad; either write your own stuff or ask the author if you can use this.
Back To Fiction