Mini-story I wrote in 2003 (just found in an old notebook):   Finding a Heart: When the young substitute teacher came into the class, most of the young teens settled down, but one kid, whose smile was a challenge, remained where he was, sitting on the teacher's desk, playing with the stapler. He had splayed the stapler and was clicking staples out, one by one. The school was in a bad neighbourhood, but the teacher came from the 'hood. He knew these kids, watched their eyes tracking from the gangsta to him and back, waiting, almost without breathing, to see how he’d react. The sub wrote his name on the board, giving himself a minute to think while listening to the clack, clack, clack of the stapler. When he’d written his name, he came slowly around the desk to half-sit beside the kid, ignoring the rest of the class, though he was very conscious of every eye that was on him, eyes dark with frustration and  despair. Waiting   for him to conquer or submit. He pick