Screams and Memories

The Storyteller Speaks: Strength is Not Always Power Have you ever been humbled by a softball? Not fear. Not magic. Not a monster clawing at your ribs or a cursed necklace draining your soul. No, I mean an actual softball. Repeatedly. At high velocity. The kind that leaves a deep, throbbing ache that hums long after the impact. Today’s lesson? Pain can be productive. And apparently, Val used to be a hell of a hitter. Scene: Morning at the Abandoned Gym The harsh, anemic glow of the fluorescent lights struggled to pierce the gloom, flickering above us like dying stars. Thick motes of dust, illuminated by the weak shafts of gray sunlight, danced lazily in the stale, metallic air that clung to our throats. The scent of damp concrete and forgotten sweat hung heavy in the silence. Val stepped up to the line, the cool, smooth grip of the aluminum bat a familiar weight in her gloved hands. Her eyes, slitted and sharp as a cat's, narrowed, focusing on the target. He...