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Description
The house had obviously burned to the ground hours ago. The last flame dying out around the time Troy Davis was running out onto the football field he had begun to despise.
The game had played out as usual: the other team had no chance and Troy got all the praise.  It wasn’t a social position he particularly enjoyed, but he seemed to have no choice. He played the part of the happy teenaged jock and did stupid things with the people he called his friends, but lately it had all seemed so pointless.
Especially now, as he stared across the larger-than-necessary driveway. The house’s steel frame stood over a sea of ashes and charred plumbing. Fading pillars of smoke drifted upwards and a few dying embers shimmered in the glow of the evening sun. Nothing had survived.
As Troy watched the remains of his parents’ house smolder, his mind reached back to the locker room after the game, where a teacher had pulled him aside and given him the news. He said he’d been waiting since the beginning of the game, but Troy was playing nonstop and he never got a chance.
Not that it would have mattered much, thought Troy.
He turned to the man next to him—a counselor from school who’d received the report, “They didn’t make it out?”
“We can’t be sure…not yet,” came the answer from one of the fire chiefs overseeing the search of the house’s rubble.
“Do you have a friend’s house you can go to, Troy? The firemen will take care of everything here, and they’ll let you know what they find.”
“Sure, I’ve got plenty of friends. I think I’ll stay here for a while, though, maybe let it sink in.”
“You don’t need a ride?”
“No, I’ll be alright.  Thanks.”
While it was true that Troy did have plenty of friends, he had no intention of spending this night with any of them. He sat down on the grass and watched the counselor drive off down the long road through the trees that lead out of his parents’ secluded property. He watched as the firefighters picked through the rubble, searching for signs of bodies and the mysterious cause of the fire.
The sun painted a few last clouds a fiery red before dipping out of sight behind the trees and mountains. There were only a few firefighters left. One of them was walking in Troy’s direction; he had no particular expression on his face to indicate success or failure.
“You alright, son?” asked the man in a fatherly tone, “This stuff ain’t easy to deal with.”
“I’ll be okay,” Troy nodded absently, still staring at the ashes.
“The fire burned away any chance of finding the cause…it must have been burning a long time before anyone called.”
Although this made no sense to Troy, as the house was equipped with the latest security and fire-prevention systems, he agreed quietly. He knew the conclusion the firefighter was coming to.
“…The good new is the smoke got to ‘em before the fire.”
Troy said nothing, but finally looked into the man’s eyes.
The man put his hat back on and looked away, “It ain’t much good news, but it could be worse.”
Troy wasn’t sure how it could be worse, but as the last fire truck rolled away, he thought that the dead house a hundred feet away from him was not the strangest thing that had happened to him that day.
He didn’t have long to ponder this, however. He heard a rustle in the bushes across the clearing and sensed movement in the darkness. Two men were moving quickly toward him. One carried briefcase, and the other carried a gun.
The men stopped; not five feet from Troy.
“Troy Davis?” asked the man with the gun.
“It’s him, just shoot,” said the other.
The silencer was already screwed on, and the bullet whispered out into the cold night air.
In slow motion, Troy saw the tiny metal object slicing through the air, headed straight for his forehead.
Troy instantly recalled his experience at half time earlier that day. This random act of violence seemed no different. Two opposing team members had followed Troy off the field as he was heading to the parking lot and had started pushing him around. Troy had never had patience for this kind of thing, so he quickly shoved them both into another car. These two were angrier than the others, however, enraged at Troy’s humiliation of their team. They had picked themselves up and had come after Troy multiple times. Within him, a rage had burned that was so fierce he couldn’t stop it from escaping. Its flames seemed to spout from Troy’s fingers and sear through his eyelids. The two antagonists lay twitching and vomiting on the pavement, and Troy hurried back to the field, unsure of what he had just done.
That rage resurfaced for a moment as Troy watched the bullet cut the air. Troy lifted his hands and the bullet exploded inches from Troy’s face, the tiny particles whizzing by his temples.
Troy felt himself propelled foreword, his strong hands grasping the shooter’s shirt and flesh, pulling, pulling, as if he were trying to pull the man’s life out of him. He pulled the shooter close, and then, with the same force that had shoved the two boys in the parking lot, Troy shoved the man away, and he screamed, then collapsed on the grass.
The other man, screaming something about being wrong, had turned on his heels and was running for the trees.
Troy’s conscious mind returned, and for the first time he took control of this thing that was running through his veins.  His body pulsed with it and his head reeled with the sensation, but he gathered himself together, and shoved again.
This time he focused the energy in one direction, aiming at the fleeing man with his hand. Troy saw that it was electricity jumping from his body to the fleeing figure, sending him sprawling to the grass.
Electricity? Thought Troy. Why am I seething with electricity?

Description
The house had obviously burned to the ground hours ago. The last flame dying out around the time Troy Davis was running out onto the football field he had begun to despise.
The game had played out as usual: the other team had no chance and Troy got all the praise.  It wasn’t a social position he particularly enjoyed, but he seemed to have no choice. He played the part of the happy teenaged jock and did stupid things with the people he called his friends, but lately it had all seemed so pointless.
Especially now, as he stared across the larger-than-necessary driveway. The house’s steel frame stood over a sea of ashes and charred plumbing. Fading pillars of smoke drifted upwards and a few dying embers shimmered in the glow of the evening sun. Nothing had survived.
As Troy watched the remains of his parents’ house smolder, his mind reached back to the locker room after the game, where a teacher had pulled him aside and given him the news. He said he’d been waiting since the beginning of the game, but Troy was playing nonstop and he never got a chance.
Not that it would have mattered much, thought Troy.
He turned to the man next to him—a counselor from school who’d received the report, “They didn’t make it out?”
“We can’t be sure…not yet,” came the answer from one of the fire chiefs overseeing the search of the house’s rubble.
“Do you have a friend’s house you can go to, Troy? The firemen will take care of everything here, and they’ll let you know what they find.”
“Sure, I’ve got plenty of friends. I think I’ll stay here for a while, though, maybe let it sink in.”
“You don’t need a ride?”
“No, I’ll be alright.  Thanks.”
While it was true that Troy did have plenty of friends, he had no intention of spending this night with any of them. He sat down on the grass and watched the counselor drive off down the long road through the trees that lead out of his parents’ secluded property. He watched as the firefighters picked through the rubble, searching for signs of bodies and the mysterious cause of the fire.
The sun painted a few last clouds a fiery red before dipping out of sight behind the trees and mountains. There were only a few firefighters left. One of them was walking in Troy’s direction; he had no particular expression on his face to indicate success or failure.
“You alright, son?” asked the man in a fatherly tone, “This stuff ain’t easy to deal with.”
“I’ll be okay,” Troy nodded absently, still staring at the ashes.
“The fire burned away any chance of finding the cause…it must have been burning a long time before anyone called.”
Although this made no sense to Troy, as the house was equipped with the latest security and fire-prevention systems, he agreed quietly. He knew the conclusion the firefighter was coming to.
“…The good new is the smoke got to ‘em before the fire.”
Troy said nothing, but finally looked into the man’s eyes.
The man put his hat back on and looked away, “It ain’t much good news, but it could be worse.”
Troy wasn’t sure how it could be worse, but as the last fire truck rolled away, he thought that the dead house a hundred feet away from him was not the strangest thing that had happened to him that day.
He didn’t have long to ponder this, however. He heard a rustle in the bushes across the clearing and sensed movement in the darkness. Two men were moving quickly toward him. One carried briefcase, and the other carried a gun.
The men stopped; not five feet from Troy.
“Troy Davis?” asked the man with the gun.
“It’s him, just shoot,” said the other.
The silencer was already screwed on, and the bullet whispered out into the cold night air.
In slow motion, Troy saw the tiny metal object slicing through the air, headed straight for his forehead.
Troy instantly recalled his experience at half time earlier that day. This random act of violence seemed no different. Two opposing team members had followed Troy off the field as he was heading to the parking lot and had started pushing him around. Troy had never had patience for this kind of thing, so he quickly shoved them both into another car. These two were angrier than the others, however, enraged at Troy’s humiliation of their team. They had picked themselves up and had come after Troy multiple times. Within him, a rage had burned that was so fierce he couldn’t stop it from escaping. Its flames seemed to spout from Troy’s fingers and sear through his eyelids. The two antagonists lay twitching and vomiting on the pavement, and Troy hurried back to the field, unsure of what he had just done.
That rage resurfaced for a moment as Troy watched the bullet cut the air. Troy lifted his hands and the bullet exploded inches from Troy’s face, the tiny particles whizzing by his temples.
Troy felt himself propelled foreword, his strong hands grasping the shooter’s shirt and flesh, pulling, pulling, as if he were trying to pull the man’s life out of him. He pulled the shooter close, and then, with the same force that had shoved the two boys in the parking lot, Troy shoved the man away, and he screamed, then collapsed on the grass.
The other man, screaming something about being wrong, had turned on his heels and was running for the trees.
Troy’s conscious mind returned, and for the first time he took control of this thing that was running through his veins.  His body pulsed with it and his head reeled with the sensation, but he gathered himself together, and shoved again.
This time he focused the energy in one direction, aiming at the fleeing man with his hand. Troy saw that it was electricity jumping from his body to the fleeing figure, sending him sprawling to the grass.
Electricity? Thought Troy. Why am I seething with electricity?