Satire Sunday: The Courtside Chiller, Part VI

The team of GeistenGrounders sure looked tough,
And had a lot of lingo for to sling
'Bout psychometers, plasmatrons and stuff
That sounded most impressive. But the thing
That finally made clean the haunted gym
Was none of these. The spectre simply laughed
The louder at their gadgets. "Look at him!"
One Grounder to another screamed. A shaft
Of pale blue light appeared. It had a face
As big as poor Coach Bly was tall, its look
As fierce as was the smell about the place.
The frightened team paused. "Let's re-check the book."
Turned out that what was needed was to say
In Aklo, "Yeah, we see you. Go away."

Sci-Fi Saturday: The Courtside Chiller, Part V

Resolve, it sometimes falters, as does will,
And as the minutes passed, that eerie cry
Unsettled those who heard it. Soon its chill
Was too much even for the strong Coach Bly.
His incantation trailed off to a sob
Of guilt and failure. It seemed victory
Was going to the evil presence. Rob
A father of his pow'r to guard, to be
Protector, and he's easy to defeat.
But lo! From out the home team's locker room
Came figures, four, with gadgetry so neat
And knowledge so profound as would spell doom
For any haunting. Beams of searing light
That stank of ozone soon lit up the night!

Fantasy Friday: The Courtside Chiller, Part IV

"Coach Bly, come quick!" The student trainer said.
"The baskets have come loose; they're flying around
Like discuses! One clocked Mel on the head,
The other's pinning Jacob to the ground!"
They rushed inside, and found things had got worse:
The lights were flashing, brutal laughter sent
Great waves of terror through all hearers. "Curse
That kid," Bly muttered. Then a rafter bent
Itself around the trainer's limbs and held him fast.
Coach Bly just steeled himself, began his chant,
And dodged as basketballs flew through the air.
"No, stop," a child's voice said. "No, Dad, you can't."
It sounded like his long-dead son. "Please, spare--"
Teeth gritted, he ignored this wicked ploy,
Though tears shone from his eyes for his lost boy.

Thriller Thursday: The Courtside Chiller, Part III

Sonneteer's note: Today's is a prequel of sorts to the prior installments of The Courtside Chiller.

Some twenty years before, a player for
This university, a student of
Dead languages had delved into some more
Obscure ones, and he quickly fell in love
With one that should not ever have been taught.
This guided all his studies, and his life
In strange directions. One night he was caught
Mid-sacrifice: his coach's former wife
Was rescued in the nick of time! Her blood
Was meant to summon Old Ones yet unnamed.
His name, of course, thenceforth and ever Mud,
This student worked in secret, yet unshamed.
His last experiment was on the court,
Where he had once reigned as a god of sport.

Weird Wednesday: The Courtside Chiller, Part II

Sonneteer's note: this is a sequel to yesterday's sonnet. Part III will appear tomorrow on Thriller Thursday!

Coach Bly had scoffed at Father Bill's advice,
(But one of his assistants took some notes
In secret. So if you meet that kid, Bryce,
Buy him a beer or something), so when motes
Of dust on the arena floor spelled out
Obscene and racist messages, which could
Not be eradicated, talk about
What could be done was futile. Nothing good
E'er comes ignoring poltergeists, we know!
So none should have been shocked to find young guard
Cob Casek in the center circle, low,
Spread-Eagled, screaming, but they took it hard.
The kid gets couns'ling sev'ral times a week,
But he still mutters Aklo when he speaks.

Terror Tuesday: The Courtside Chiller, Part I

It started with a cold spot on the floor,
There in the corner, where no time was spent.
But then not just the sweeper noticed; more
Space fell under its influence. Soon Trent
(Star forward for the team) sensed something odd:
His three-pointers from there not only tanked,
But shame for when they did, that sense that God
Himself was angry gripped him. Well, Trent banked
One anyway next game, but then a voice
Was heard from there, its moans inducing fear
That paralyzed. Soon Coach Bly had no choice
But to rewrite their plays for that whole year.
At last, a Catholic school came there to play
And their coach told Bly what he'd have to say.

Mystery Monday: Not in Wonderland, Part IX

Sonneteer's note: This is the latest entry in a serial begun last year. For the entire serial to date, click here. Remember to read from the bottom up.

They left the cottage later on that night,

Deciding darkness was their safest bet

From now on. "Oi, you fool, shut out that light!"

A voice called to them. "Pray, have we met?"

Asked Alice. From the shadows came a beast

Whose rows of teeth glowed greenish and whose eyes

Were small and black and widely spaced. "At least

Stop shouting. We'll be seen by Roja's spies."

"But who is Roja?" "You are funny, miss,"

The shark – for it was such, though 'twas through sand

It moved – said to her, darkly, with a hiss

(Its tongue was slim and forked and darting, and

Distinctly snake-like) "And you need a hat.

I know a guy. I'll show you where he's at."

Satire Sunday: He's Really Sorry

Reed Martin is the one we have to thank
For killing his entire industry.
His notion seemed like money in the bank
At first: While product placement on TV
And in the movies was the oldest hat,
Collecting fees for placement within spots
For other products took off just like that!
The Popcorn Council's revenues were hot
Once microwave corn showed up in each ad
For satellite or cable, then Kind Bud
In all fast food promotions. Soon the bad
And complex consequences made a dud
Of Reed's idea. Everyone's in court
Disputing over billings -- the new sport.

Sci-Fi Saturday: Just Super

The message from his father never reached
Young Clark and so in Smallville did he stay.
And when his pa did die his ma beseeched
Him: keep the farm alive! There was no way
That he could tell her no. Within a year.
He had a son, but Lana did not live
For reasons we might guess, but not, I fear,
Our hero, who gave all he had to give
To let his child live normally -- but when
A green-hued stone fell straight down from the sky
And cratered in his cornfield, once again
Intelligence had failed to reach him. By
The time he'd moved the kryptonite, too late!
All hail Lord Luthor, as was e'er our fate.

Fantasy Friday: A Forensic Fancy

The Jubjub stood between them, in its state
Of readiness, lacking form and hue and and size.
And so the pair commenced their last debate,
The bird transforming right before the eyes
Of judges and spectators, turn by turn.
"He's small with great blue wings," quoth Speaker One.
"Nay," Speaker Two said, "Though I tend to spurn
Assigning gender, She blots out the sun
And with her breath, puts out the torches' flame!"
The contest, now in darkness and in cold
Was all but won right there, as only lame
Rebuttals came from One. Meanwhile her bold
Opponent did empow'r the creature more,
Then said "The Jubjub's choice decides the score!"

- For Nina Ford, Larissa Ford and Robin Gloss