Shelter from the Storm (Fiction)
The cacophony of squeaking shoes and bouncing basketballs filled the gymnasium as I tried to block Victor’s path. He was a young boy Hispanic boy, about eight, maybe nine years. He had brown eyes and equally brown hair, short and buzz-cut. We had asked permission to use the gymnasium at Storm Creek Day Care Center, where I was supervising Victor. In one quick motion he twisted his torso around me and ran right up to the basket. Swish! The orange basketball slid right into the hoop. “I got one!... Sign in to see full entry.