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Weekly Contest #151
The sun was about to set behind Ms. Steven’s house. Someone yelled at Mia to hurry up and pitch, and she scoured the bases for the culprit. Greg Abbott stood in front of a mailbox with a deep frown on his face. Mia frowned back at him and picked up the kickball which rested against her ankles. It was old, most of it retained its original red hue, but its ridges had smoothed over with use. With a light squeeze Mia could tell it hadn’t been pumped in a while. She swung it behind her back and forward again, letting it loose. It skidded across t...
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