I finally got to see a historical-rules baseball game over at Greenfield Village, which gave me the background I needed to write the final stretch goal for last year’s Prohibition Orcs kickstarter.
“Make writing a baseball story a stretch goal,” I said. “Taunt Ron, and Brigid, and Kris,” I said. Me and my bright ideas. I’m paying for that now.
Here’s a bit from the opening.
January would shiv your spleen with knives of ice. February’s only mercy was its swiftness. March delighted in turning snow to slurry before refreezing it, giving every dawn fresh treachery. But bitter April giggled in betrayal.
The alley chopping the Detroit city block in half had never been paved. The Sun had recovered enough heat to melt snow almost every afternoon, and enough strength to arc higher and longer across the fierce blue sky, but not enough to penetrate the shadows behind buildings. Snowmelt ran into sheltered potholes and became smooth slick ice. Each step differed, mud following ice following muck, all conspiring against an orc’s boots in constantly shifting alliance. Garbage entombed in ice was starting to thaw, cutting the clean smells of mud and snow with the taint of rot.