8-Ball The distinctive crack of pool balls hitting each other rang throughout the room. Bright fluorescent lights broke through the dense cigarette smoke, illuminating the space. At the corner pocket stood a casually dressed man. His name was Thomas Vega; on the outside, his demeanor was calm, suave. Yet inside, he was carefully reading the pool table in front of him, setting up the next move. Like a general planning his attack, Thomas choreographed his shots. It wasn't the fact that Mr. Vega loved pool; it was that he had a natural talent for the game. Angles and shots just presented themselves to him as if he and the table were connected by some sort of bond. Thomas angled himself into his stance and prepared for his shot. The game was Eight-Ball. It starts with the break of a triangle-shaped configuration of pool balls.
Love me, Love me not Across the brook, through the thicket, and up the rolling hills sat a girl. Her blonde hair would blow gently in the wind. Strands would occasionally fall in front of her beautiful viridian eyes, and she would easily cast the lock aside. It was a warm, bright afternoon, in which she sat on a blanket quietly reading a book. It was springtime, and love was in the air. Small flowers sprang up throughout the hills engulfing them in a ocean of yellow. In the waves of amber and green, Anne flipped the pages of her book. She was oblivious to her surrounding and the emotions that spring cast upon the world. I had met Anne last week, down the road from my house. She was walking across the brook, towards the thicket, and on to the hills. I was wading in the shallow water and skipping rocks. As she passed me by, I looked up