George

Everyone had something they were good at.  Larry could draw pictures, Barry could do math, Jerry could climb trees, even Tommy Edison on the other side of town had his little inventions he loved to show people.  George could never live with all that tinkering, and he couldn't draw any better that he could fly.  He fell back on his universal answer of four whenever he as asked to solve an equation, and he could never approach a tree without seeing his grandfathers nasty wodden dentures.  He'd grown to fear trees, then hate them, which was why he'd often enjoyed chopping down his father's cherry trees when he wasn't looking.  But chopping trees was nothing to be passionate about.  No, George's one true passion was running.

He'd go by the schoolyard every day and practice on their track, and he was probably the fastest person in his township.  He never won at any of the track meets, but he was sure he'd swamp the competition this year.  Larry, Jerry, and Tommy always entered, but George hadn't been able to beat them yet.  That would all change this year, though.

George walked up to the track as the event was beginning.  He was prepared to race when a familiar figure blocked his progress.  She had a doo-doo brown dress that didn't even cover her ankles completely (the harlott), and had thin frameless glasses that accented her lips that were usually pursed together going Shhhhh! at people.  It was the librarian, Mrs. Preposition.

"Well, if it isn't little Georgie, coming back to take home the gold?"  She said sneering at him.  George, being unusally shy, had never spoken to her.  He'd never really spoken to anyone, which is why people thought he was mute.  "You'll never win.  You never have and you never will."  George steeled his nerved and pushed past her, a determined look on his face.  He would win this year.  She moved in front of him again.

"Maybe you didn't understand me; you'll never win because this is a school-wide competition, and..."  She leaned in close, and George could catch the smell of old paper wafting from her.  "You don't go to school here!"  George had always run into this problem.  He walked away, crestfallen as he was every time he tired to compete.  Perhaps running never was his true passion.  If he learned to mumble, he always had politics to fall back on.