by Gillian Taber

Created on: June 14, 2009

Jimmy bumbled along the shoreline, his 'Sword of Destiny' occasionally probing into the damp sand. A handful of late-summer tourists sprawled on their towels, pretending that the wind was refreshing instead of verging on icy. If they noticed the boy at all it was with a distant smile. A young lad, no more than eight, playing at treasure hunting, who brought back fond childhood memories.

Jimmy was actually ten and he was on a mission. He knew the driftwood branch in his hand was not really a sword but he had a good imagination. Imagination was all that was keeping the panic at bay. He paused, a wavelet rolling over his trainers as he stared along the two miles of coastline. It wasn't only panic that was making his heart beat a little faster. Every time his 'sword' hit something in the sand he felt a little frisson, delicious and like heat in his blood. He knew that tingle was excitement mingled with the incipient panic.

Short for his age, a wearer of glasses and with intelligence to spare, Jimmy was the perfect target for bullies. He knew the taste of fear in his mouth when Johnny, twice his size and making up in muscle what he lacked in smarts, stalked toward him across the hopscotch grid. He also knew that tingle. Scared as he inevitably was, and it felt new each time, the fear was accompanied by that tingle. Somewhere deep in Jimmy's brain a voice was shouting 'This time! This time you'll hit him'.

Of course he never had and probably never would but that thrill of possibility was familiar and he knew it now. His stick smacked against something that resisted, buried beneath the sand. He probed deeper and noticed that his hand was shaking. A part of his brain screamed at him to walk away, phone the police, tell his parents; anything but discover what was down there. He ignored it.

The object turned out to be a tin can and the reckless part of Jimmy, the side of him that desperately wanted to be someone, to be recognized and hailed as a hero instead of derided for being 'too clever by half', sighed disappointedly. He tucked the can into his backpack, hating himself for his actions as he walked on. Everyone thought him odd. Even his parents didn't understand his need to do some things.

If he saw litter he simply couldn't resist the urge to pick it up and throw it in the trash. Pencils had to be in neat rows and sharpened to a point. His clothes had to be in color and size order. Things had to happen on time and in the right place or he felt uncomfortable,

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