LJ Idol -- Sticks and Stones
First, you dig a hole.
Not too deep. Enough to twist an ankle if you step in it. That is the point, after all, it’s a hole of protection.
Next, maybe you stick sharpened sticks into the mud at the bottom, to add insult to injury - stabbing your foot even as your ankle twists out from under you.
Finally, you cover the hole lightly with leaves. So they don’t see it. The sharpened sticks even help hold the leaves up in the middle.
You have to remember where you dig these holes, or else you’ll be humiliated when you fall in your own hole. Mark your hole with a small, smooth stone. And remember! Remember where you put your hole.
Climb a tree. Watch over your hole. Watch over your copse of trees. Watch over your territory. Wait for war.
War will come in a shower of berries and walnuts. War will come in a band of marauding neighborhood boys. They’re the robbers to your cops. They’re the older guys who always make you “it” in hide and seek; grab your arms during tag and spin you around, throwing you into the fence; fling insults at you about your glasses, calling you a “four-eyed freak;” accidentally knock out your loose teeth with elbows and thrown nuts and pebbles. They’re also the guys who hugged you when your gerbil died, and, most importantly, give you strength - so much strength that you grow without feeling like you can’t do things because you are a girl. You love them fiercely. You suspect they love you too, even though you’re like their little sister.
Watch from your tree, look out into the golden sunlight as it shines down on the field beyond your copse of trees. You hear the blood pumping in your ears as you wait, even as your lone girl neighborhood friend perches on a branch near you. It’s quiet.
You have a grouping of acorns, pebbles, and berries bundled up in your shirt, ready to throw. You have grass stains on your shirt, tangled hair in a ponytail, scraped knees, and big glasses.
Suddenly, a glint of color comes streaking from the far corner of the field. Your little brother, the lookout, running fast, cheeks red with exertion. “They’re coming!” he calls, exhilarated. He sprints into your fort of trees, jumping over the disguised holes, scrambling up a nearby tree, your army now a band of three.
The whoops and hollers of the older boys now start to reach you. You look at your fellow soldiers. You are all smiling, giddy with waiting for the assault.
You snap a stick off a nearby branch.
You tense, ready to throw.