While leaving a movie, I am given a box of old writings by a stranger that date back to middle school. At first I am hesitant to open this box. How good could my middle school era writings possibly have been? And why would they be worth re-visiting now? The stranger informs me that there is an expiration on the ideas inside; like a statute of limitations, if I do not pursue any of the good ideas now, I will forever forfeit my rights to them. I crack open the box and start peering through the documents. Some of them are torn, faded, or hard to read. One of them is written on a 12″ x 18″ “job envelope” like you would find behind the counter at a Kinko’s. The prose has flashes of brilliance (at least as “brilliant” as a 13 year old could possibly write) before getting bogged down in frustrating, juvenile transitions. The story itself is about a cadre of young girls with apparent super-powers; none of the girls are mutants nor are any of them born of alien parents but each has some rigorous training that she endures. Most of the text focuses on the character with an uncanny marksmanship; her single dad drilled her in basketball free-throws night after night, ratcheting in the hoop millimeter and millimeter until it was far smaller than a standard hoop. And she could hit it every time. The hand-writing keeps changing and I have to wonder if the story is even all mine but when I look up to ask, the stranger is gone.