Gemotions

He slammed the lid on the ancient cedar chest with a satisfying thud. The sheer audacity of it! His mother, the queen of pragmatism, the woman who tossed out his beloved baseball cards the moment he graduated high school, had secretly squirreled away every single paper, every crude drawing, every half-hearted attempt at poetry. A whoop escaped his lips as he saw the folder containing his seventh-grade history paper.

"Yes!" he muttered, practically vibrating with excitement.

He grabbed the folder, its contents promising to be a hilarious look at his youthful ambitions. He was going to use this as leverage, finally. He raced down the stairs, already envisioning the look on his mother’s face when he presented her with the evidence of his childhood brilliance. He practically skipped, each step fueled by a sense of vindication.