caillech2002@yahoo.com
http://www.arkwolf.com/caillechsite/index.html
This is the standard
disclaimer. They don't belong to me. This story is not intended to violate any
copyrights held by Paramount, UPN, or Pet Fly Productions.
Author's Notes:
A big thank you to my
betas Spacepixell and Loopy for all their help, encouragement, and patience.
%%%
A hush fell over the crowd of onlookers.
All eyes were riveted on the still figure of Jim Ellison.
This was it.
This shot would decide the game.
Jim had promised Blair that he would keep his senses dialed down to ‘normal’.
It would have been an unfair advantage to the other players any other way. It
didn’t matter; they were way out of their league.
It was an easy shot.
He could make this shot in his sleep, one arm tied behind his back.
Sensing victory and closing in for the kill, Jim went into action.
Eye on the ball, Ellison…keep your eye on the ball.
The tension rippled through the crowd as Jim raised his arms. With cat-like
grace he started the downward arc that would complete the shot.
Just then a voice sing-songed from the crowd. “You’re gon-na mi-iss. You’re
gon-na mi-iss.”
His concentration broken, Jim missed his mark.
A collective gasp shot through crowd and then silence again reigned.
Jim slowly turned to face his tormentor.
His prey had already begun its flight.
Jim roared, “Sandburg! You little shit…when I get my hands on you…!”
Laughter replaced the tense silence.
Jim abandoned his mallet and ignored the scattered croquet balls.
A new game had begun.
End.
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