Here are the first paragraphs of the stories. You can click on the link at the end to go to the rest of the story.
Brandy
Teddy understood he was dying of a brain tumor, as well as any nine-year-old could understand the concept. He switched on his Gameboy as the morning light leached through his bedroom window and onto his Spiderman bedspread.
His parents called him Teddy; everyone else called Theodore Karl Mullins, TK. He was eight when they found the tumor. He’d been complaining of headaches and blurred vision. CAT scans revealed the tumor to be inoperable, so the family agreed to radiation and chemotherapy. TK didn't participate in the treatment choices; adults always got to make decisions.
Had he known he'd go bald, and how other boys would tease him, he might have refused treatment. Death sounded weird, but his parents said he’d go to sleep for a long time, and eventually all his family and friends would be with him in heaven, so he decided maybe it wasn’t sound so bad. <more Brandy>
Ixarri
The snowmobile lurched to the right, and went airborne, twisting like a salmon over a fall, before crashing to the ground. I lay in the snow, eyes closed. I couldn’t feel my legs, and my back and kidneys felt as if I’d gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson. I fought to clear the fog of semi-consciousness, then remembered driving home from a friend’s house when the snow at the edge of the road had apparently given way in a mini-avalanche.
I looked down at my twisted, bloodstained lower left pant leg. “Shit!” The bone had apparently torn the flesh. The snow and cold were slowing the blood flow, but I wasn’t going anywhere on that wheel. <more Ixarri>
A Cold Wind
The leaves twisted on the trees down the center of First Avenue, flashing silver and green in the warm September breeze. As I walked my beat, Seattle’s downtown buildings, bronzed by the setting sun, glowed like Inca treasures.
The chill blast of air on the side of my face, seeming to come from a basement stairwell, stunned me. Looking down, I spotted a man holding a knife, and demanding another man’s wallet.
Revolver in hand, I hollered over the rail. “Police! Drop the knife!” <more Cold Wind>