Photo Source: Pixabay The trolley races down the hill. The operator is unconscious, slumped over the controls. At the bottom of the hill a group of five cheerleaders gather on the tracks. Alan shouts at the cheerleaders. They don’t hear him. He waves his arms. They’re taking a selfie. He spies a switch next to the tracks. He sprints, grabs and yanks. It will not budge. He pulls again. Nothing. The trolley is gathering speed. Alan plants his feet against the base and leans...

Photo Source: PxHere Racing up the trail, my heart thumps. Sweat drips down my back. My lungs wonder what the Hell happened to all the oxygen. On the final turn, I sprint up the stone steps and slap my hand against the steel superstructure of the fire tower. “Done!” I shout to nobody. I suck air and check the time. Aha! A new personal record. Sliced two minutes, nineteen seconds off the old one. And I’ve burned off that mid-afternoon donut liberated from the break...

Photo Source: Flickr July, 1997 Julia Trent knocked on the open office door. “Peter, I’ve got to run out. Can you meet with the Othalman Group?” Peter frowned. “I’m not really up to speed. Besides, you’re the lead architect.” She softened her eyes and gave him a desperate look. “Please, it’s too late to cancel. They’re already on their way.” Peter did the math. As the newest member of the firm, he figured he should go along. “Okay.” ...