There’s More . . .

[ I am 40,000+ words into my current work-in-progress, a novella titled, There's More . . .  Recently, the California Writers Club, Mt. Diablo Branch (to which I belong), challenged our members to tell a story, not in thousands of words, but in 100 or less. I accepted the task. The following is my novella from start to finish. ]

A bat. A ball. A swing. A bullet.
A death. A guide. A life.

A bat—black-varnished, rays of setting sun splintering north, south, east, west, until tension-stilled,
at the ready. 
A ball—Virginal white. Never pitched, nor struck. Rocketing from hurler’s hand. 
A swing—fluid, potent contact, ball arrowing moundward. 
A bullet—fired in revenge, racing ball to target. 
A death. Accident? Murder? Projectiles: protagonists in this unplotted drama. The pitcher falls, forehead concaved,
a blackening hole deep at crater ’s base. 
A guide. Heaven-sent to assist at this unexpected crossing-over. 
A life—“There’s more, my son . . . .”

The End