The Red Glare:

I wasn’t in the back of a hearse that day, nor a bullet train, but I wouldn’t be returning home that night either. Candy pelted the eager spectators, as flashes of regulation fire engine horns honked. Mothers gripped the hands of toddlers tightly, as ice cream dripped down the burnt sugar cone. The asphalt cracked under the pressure of tire treads and marching band flaggers' sneakers.

“Boom, Boom, whistle," ashes salted my auburn hair like it was damn glitter. Through all the event's chaos, the only silence to be found was at the end of the sniper’s barrel. I felt my dog yank firmly on the leash until he coughed. The cord rubbed on my palm I could have sworn was smoking with the intensity of pain. I had no choice but to let go, "Rocket" I squeaked, but he ignored the mention of his name.

My father shielded me from the full impact of the caliber bullet, but even at 210 pounds, his exit wound found shreds of shrapnel lodged into my shoulder blade. This was not any typical shell casing. The bullet was engineered with a specialized substance, created in a lab. The compound, that made up the ballistics, gave me superpowers. Learning to control them, wasn’t as easy as taking Midol. I couldn’t just close my eyes and disappear; every burst of anger had the potential to melt my lighting cable or laptop. The whole if looks could kill in my case is not an exaggeration. The moment I cut my eyes; heat vision is activated.

Now who, am I just a typical high schooler, Hayden Spangelo. I am your everyday selfie extraordinaire. My life has not been a walk in the park, I was orphaned young, and placed in the care of my computer engineer aunt, and dog behavioral trainer uncle. I’m not too fond of loud noises and tend to cover my ears when fireworks are going on. My uncle grabbed noise cancelation ear pods and I listened to the poppy music stylings of my favorite artists.