Michael Corso

I turned away from him, the hot blood still coursing through my veins. I gripped the door handle, and it molded like dough into the form of my hand. Not even caring, I wrenched the handle free from the door without turning it. It cracked loose of the solid oak door, sending splinters showering to the floor. My hand tossed the now crumpled piece of metal behind me with unexpected force. It zoomed across the room and embedded itself into the wood paneling with the end my hand had crushed sticking out to see.