Miss Snark’s contest is over, and the winnner is Stephan with entry Number 12 – very fun entry! (you can read it here – along with the other entries. I particularly recommend number 77 if you like Harrty Potter X rated, lol!) Mine actually got to be a finalist, so I’m pleased as can be. The competition was stiff and the rules daunting…But we all had fun!

http://misssnark.blogspot.com/

Here’s mine:

TRY OUT HITTERS

“Drop everything and give me ten bucks,” said galleycat. “I’ll get you out of this mess.”

“No.” I was going through with it. I spit on my hands, picked up the bat, and strode out to the pitch.

“Bat Segundo!” came the call from the ump.

The crowd looked at me from down their long noses, but I pretended not to notice.

“This isn’t for the likes of you,” yelled a man in the stands.

I wanted to tell him he looked like a terrapin, but the ball was streaking toward me and I closed my eyes and swung with all my might.

I connected with the ball and felt the shock right down to my toes. The ball streaked towards the stands and whistled over the crowd so low they had to duck. I’d hit it completely wide.

“Strike one!” called the ump.

Titters from the crowd.

I gritted my teeth and tapped the bat in the dust.

“Your mother wears army boots!” Got I was tired of that old snark. My best friend galleycat usually stuck up for me in a muddle. But in this crowd of promenading poodles he was strangely cowed.

“There’re too much people here, you shouldn’a never signed up,” said galleycat. He was standing just next to the line of aspiring hitters, most of whom were twice my size and weight.

The roar of the greaspaint nearly drowned out the smell of the crowd-my head was spinning. I stuck my chin out. “I can hit the ball further than those pansies.”

The ball came at me, faster than before, like a will of the wisp. I swung again, and this time the ball shot straight up in the air.

“Girls can’t bat!” screamed someone from my right.

“I get one more try,” I screamed back, exasperated.

“Strike two.” The ump grinned at me.

The last ball was mine. I hit it over the crowd, over the fence, out of the field. Galleycat jummped up and down and screamed, the ump took his mask off and swore, and the pitcher spat in the dust and said, “I don’t care how hard she hits, I’m not having no Girl on my team.”

“Who says I wanted to be on your team?” I said. I put the bat down dainty as you please. “I just want you to think about me when you’re playing a real game, and you’re two outs and one run down.”

Galleycat and I walked past the line of try-out hitters, and I heard one mutter, “Damn, she hits the ball like Paul Bunion.”

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