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writing about growing up

Lightning or When Young Love Strikes

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It was the summer the city burned. The weather was dry and hot, but the real tinder was a mixture of frustration and anger, white and black, promises and demands. It was not a day when I though the sparks of young love would ignite. If I paused to consider these things, the pause was imperceptible. I stood at the edge of the pool contemplating whether to jump or dive, and finally, with one motion, I flung my body into an arc and parted the water with my outstretched hands. The water, bubbling from a nearby spring, was cold, shockingly

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