Well, I took the weekend off. I worked this weekend and decided to spend my free time either playing with the kids, playing World of Warcraft, reading Forever Odd or visiting friends. Needless to say I didn't find the time to write. So, I've caught up. A bit longer post than normal, but back on track for 100,000 in 200 days. Hope you enjoy and please feel free to leave comments or send me an email with your constructive criticism. (lonnbristolblog@gmail.com)
Charles had experienced long weeks before, but in truth, this one had been longest he could ever remember. Each minute seemed to drag as if the fabric of time itself had been snagged and caught firm in the grasp of an unseen captor. To add to the misery of the dragging minute hand, Gunner had decided that he needed to raise the bar with his pranks.
He continued to knock the books out of Charles hands and when the smaller boy took to carrying his class materials inside his backpack the bully countered by trying to squeeze Charles into one of the lockers. By Thursday Charles quit going to lunch altogether, instead spending that break in the library, sneaking bites of his lunch so the librarian wouldn’t catch him. This change had been facilitated because Gunner had taken to shoving various discarded food items down the back of the Charles’ shirt. On the first day it was simply a crust of bread. Tuesday it was a handful of crushed potato chips which caused the younger boy to scratch and itch all day long. On Wednesday it had been a huge pile of spaghetti. This had brought the freshman to his breaking point.
At first Charles was simply angry and disgusted by the slimy pasta slipping farther down his shirt, sending a chill up his back. The more he thought however, the braver he became. Perhaps he was buoyed by the fact that Mr. Martin had told him that come Saturday he would have ammunition to use to fight back against Gunner. Instead of taking it this time, he decided he would confront the enemy.
Untucking his shirt, Charles fished what he could of the cold slimy goo out of his clothing. With it still in hand he stood up and stalked the length of the lunchroom after the retreating bully. A collective “Ooooooohhhh” went up as the smaller boy stalked Gunner, intent on exacting a bit of revenge.
Hearing the crowd around him, Gunner turned to see Charles rushing towards him, a handful of wet spaghetti in his left hand, while the remainder of the pasta slipped out from the back of the smaller boy’s shirt and flopped to the floor like so many wriggling worms.
Charles really didn’t know what he was planning to do. He was simply tired of Gunner Blanton and he wasn’t going to take it anymore.
Gunner, however, had other ideas. Seeing the freshman closing in, he set his feet and raised his hands, palms out, fingers up. He looked like one of the figures in the posters you would see advertising big time wrestling that would crop up around town whenever a company of those particular entertainers were coming to town. There he stood, waiting for Charles to get to him.
Gunner lived for moments like this. The teasing and harassment were really secondary to the thrill he got from the confrontation. He had been waiting for the scrawny little punk to crack, and now he had. There really was nothing better than this.
Charles reached the larger boy and had every intention of shoving the cold noodles down Gunner’s shirt. There were however a few slight problems, the biggest of them being the fact that Gunner wasn’t five foot tall (like Charles), he wasn’t sitting down with his back to Charles (as Charles had been to him) and from his posture it appeared that Gunner was not in the mood to have spaghetti shoved down the back of his shirt.
Seeing these things, Charles let instinct set in.
Charles isn’t left handed, but that really didn’t cross his mind as a surge of adrenaline forced the younger boy to make his decision. He flung the spaghetti at the larger boy, only to have to land helplessly not in the bully’s face, but squarely on the toe of his scuffed up, black hiking boot.
This failure to hit with his ranged weapon did not deter the smaller boy who followed up his errant throw with a scream and with hands flailing like a drowning swimmer, a full on assault of the larger boy.
Charles wasn’t sure if he had landed any punches (can you call a slapping, open hand a punch?) What he did know and know well, was that Gunner had landed the one and only he had thrown.
Charles crumpled like a tin can does when you step on it, veritably bending around the bully’s fist as his connected with his midsection. The wind escaped his lungs like a collapsed bellows, leaving the smaller boy’s eyes and mouth wide. Shortly thereafter Charles seemingly slid off of Gunner’s fist, onto the floor, curling up like a baby in the fetal position while gasping for the air his lungs couldn’t find.
Tears welled up in Charles’ eyes as Gunner knelt down so as to get close as he could to the freshman’s ear.
“How’d that feel, Chucky,” he taunted. “You thought you could take me, didn’t you? Well, I guess we both know that you were wrong. Enjoy the rest of your lunch,” he chuckled as he reached down, pulling a glob of the spaghetti off of his boot and shoved it into Charles’ still open, and still gasping mouth.
As Charles lay there gasping, his knees pulled up to his chest, cold spaghetti falling from his open mouth, tears running freely from his eyes, an odd character ran out of the crowd and up to him. His hair was raven black. Laden with gel, it stood straight up making it look as if he was part porcupine. He wore various piercings in each of his ears, and while he had objected openly and often concerning their removal, only the holes in his lips and his eyebrows were evidence of the other facial jewelry he wore when he was no longer under the rules and regulations of Cragsville High School.
His clothes, baggy and oversized, even for someone twice his size, were bedecked with shiny silver grommets and clanking chains. Dark purple eyeliner and a healthy over application of mascara decorated each eye. The ensemble was completed with dark lip liner which made his mouth seem completely artificial, like it had been completely painted on along with the pencil marks surrounding it.
Seeing Charles being helped by one of the “freak parade”, the crowd began to disperse. Gunner too, was long gone, knowing that to be caught fighting by one of the teachers would mean a suspension.
“Are you alright bro?” the scary goth boy asked.
“”Just leave me alone,” Charles sobbed, his breath finally returning to him.
“Dude, it’s okay, I’m here to help you. Let’s get you up off this floor.”
Hooking his arm underneath the smaller boy’s, the odd looking kid helped Charles to his feet.
“There you go bro, let’s get you cleaned up.”
He led Charles back over to one of the empty seats, all the while barking at people around him, “What the hell are you looking at dude?!? You got a problem with me? Mind your own freakin’ business!”
Whether it was these exclamations or the attention their stares had brought, the people surrounding the two gave them their distance and averted their eyes. If anything, the boy in black was threatening looking.
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