Nine Minus One

"Nine Minus One"
by Bruce Golden

Bats slammed into lockers, cleats scraped the floor, and frothy spittle stained the walls. An influx of uniformed combatants filed into the room, some mumbling, others grumbling–the sure sign of another loss. In moments the place smelled of dirty socks and planetary jocks.

As if to alter the mood, one of them began revolving around the post-game spread waving his arms. “I say we put this one behind us,” called out Saturn in an upbeat tone. “I say we go out and find some bodacious local asteroids in need of a good fertility rite. What do you say?”

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