Jessie frantically bolted down the lawn, turned the corner of the house and crouched behind the boxwood hedges. Her heart was thumping in her ears as if she was listening to music with a heavy bass.

The adrenaline made it difficult for her to sit still. She checked her pistol - half loaded.

She could hear his footsteps approaching until finally, one Reebok shoe came into sight through a hole in the bush. She sprung up, aimed and her trembling finger squeezed the trigger with all its might, sending a stream of water right to her brother Eli’s face.

Before he could regain his composure, she scampered up the lawn to the playhouse, scattering a trail of giggles behind her.

“Seatbelts everyone. I want to hear clicks!”, Mr. Myers said with a raised voice as he shot a glance off the rear view mirror.

The Myers family were embarking on their annual trip to Santa Cruz, and after a fortunate late summer growth spurt, it seemed as though Malcolm would finally be tall enough to ride the Double Shot this year.

A 125ft slow ascent into the clouds, followed by a spontaneous, free-falling return to Earth. He had been excited all year, but now that the day had arrived, anticipation was hatching butterflies in his tummy.

He made sure to wear his biggest boots and stuff a couple socks under his heels for good measure. He wasn’t taking any chances.

STRIKE ONE.

Ronnie listened to the heckling chickens that periodically cohabited deep center field. He sought refuge from the sweltering afternoon sun and pressed his baseball glove against his cheeks, peering through the web as if he was spying through a keyhole.

BALL ONE.

The savory leather smell from his worn-in mitt began tickling his nostrils. Charlie was up at bat. A 3rd grader seemingly gifted a 5th grader’s body. He despised Charlie ever since he had made fun of his swing during Tuesday’s recess.

CRACK.

The thunderous sound broke him out of his reverie. He removed his leather mask and immediately clocked an absolute piss missile quickly approaching his field space. He set a course to intercept. Time for pay back.

Matilda glided through her garden, brushing her fingertips along the tall plants and flowers that decorated her backyard retreat.

She pondered over the randomness with which wild flora peppered the blank spaces. Her artistic vision was being guided along by the spontaneity of chaos.

Only fertile ground brings about wildflowers, she concluded. Otherwise chaos gifts weeds.

Sticking to their promise made 60 years ago, Harry, Sally and Marc returned to summit Half Dome once more, now in their early 90s. Unfortunately, Marc had passed away several years prior due to an unfortunate colon complication.

But in the spirit of unity, Harry and Sally decided to bring Marc’s ashes in a gallon ziploc bag that had on it a smiley face and the word Marc etched in sharpie.

Once they peaked, they took in the view before tearing a small opening in the bottom corner of the bag, gently sprinkling Marc through his ash-hole.

“It’s how he would’ve wanted it.”

Unfortunately, they were unaware of the rock climbers below who were on their ascent up the same side of the rock.

She was watering her thyme and sage herbs under the cool shade of the orange tree, while listening to a radio broadcast of the As/Braves game on a mini speaker. Her phone buzzed on the deck railing.

She picked it up and a quick pulse of euphoric excitement shot through her veins, as if a latent tension had been let go.

It was another text from him.

Sam and Jane passed through the verdant valley on their way back from a picnic in the foothills of Mount Diablo. The afternoon heat was giving way to the evening cool as the sun began to set over the ridge.

Sam, while finishing the remainder of his diagonally cut PB&J loosely wrapped in brown paper, turned to Jane, grinned, and said, “I hope I remember this view for the rest of my life”.

A gallery scattered with small clusters of friends, relatives and acquaintances, using flutes of indistinguishable champaign to lend their hands purpose, while decorating the otherwise melancholic stillness of a vacant studio with genial chatter.

He puttered through the outer spaces, succumbing to the gravitational pull of the nearest beckoning mass, satelliting long enough to collect compliments and best wishes, before engaging an Irish exit velocity to escape orbit and return to the rather dark matter at hand.

In fact, the whole affair was a sham, an optical illusion, for his steadfast starship was simply a veneered vessel operated by a bewildered boy, indoctrinated, or rather innoculated with “potential”, and feverishly darting between strings, desperately trying to masquerade his act of ventriloquism.

For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what exactly he was being celebrated for.