Storytime!
my tale for creative writing is finished, albeit after i turned it in (the last few paragraphs were in past tense, WHOOPS). pretty significant changes were made, i believe for the best. there was a complication with my printer in getting it to class, but hooray! no need for paper and ink in this medium.
Gravity
“One.”
He is tearing, darting, dashing down alleys, over low walls, behind dumpsters, dodging street signs and hobos, broken bottles and rusty bicycles. He: his mind. His body does not flee so easily - something the older boys have made sure of. The knot of the blindfold scratches Jordan’s head, rubbing maddeningly against the quarter-inch frizz no razor has ever successfully banished, but he doesn’t take it off. He can’t, or else he’ll ruin the game, and he’s already been punished today for that. Still is. He doesn’t want to know what happens if he messes up while paying for messing up. He clomps hesitantly for a few steps, fighting paralysis.
“Two.”
The boys love seeing him panic, love it when he runs into walls or slips off curbs, love how they’re more dangerous than anything he stumbles into during the chase. This is one of their favorite games. They’re even giving him a head start, a real one where they count slowly and loud enough for him to hear, a chorus of cacophonous screams that brings a sharp, quivering pain to his ears. He scurries away from their terrifying generosity, tripping over his loose shoelaces, wishing they were playing Volcano Monster Tag instead, because then there would be only one hunter and that’s not as scary.
“Three.”
They’ve played here before. The tiny, plastic playground behind the Flame of God Evangelist Church is better known to the neighborhood boys as the galley ship of the Pirate Kings, the Crusader’s Castle, or a jail from the Wild West. The hunt had been called this time when their prisoner failed to drown “good ‘nuff” after walking the plank. Jordan had been afraid they’d jump on top of him and squoosh his stomach and make the mulch poke into his neck if he fell over dead, but now he knows he should have risked it. Anything is better than Hide and Seek. But maybe this time he’ll win. He swivels to the left, remembering his plan.
“Four.”
After eight pounding steps he swings right, arms outstretched in a V, praying he won’t break his nose. His left fingers crumple, scraping brick. Jordan yips and shuffles to the right, away from the pain, his forward momentum making his movements jerky. He counts ten more steps. His stomach clenches, waiting for the void in front of him to yield something. It’s got to be there. He can’t afford to be wrong. The urge to shove the ripped, sweaty piece of T-shirt onto his forehead ripples through him along with his dread, but there’s no way to know if they’re watching, no time to find out, no point in trying to win if he’s going to cheat. He stumbles on, trusting his memory.
“Five.”
The hand that finds the rusty side of the fire escape ladder clamps down on it so fiercely the whiplash nearly yanks his arm off. He swings around, grabbing the rungs. Come on, come on! He stumbles up the ladder, grasping each rung with sweaty hands, trying to keep shaking legs and arms in contact with the metal. The rust bites into his hands or flakes off, forcing him to grab hold again. He waits for his hand to hit nothing but air.
“Six.”
The shouting is less distinct now; Jordan wonders if he’s imagining it. They could have sped up and finished, for all he knows. He doesn’t want to think about them creeping up behind him, reaching for his ankles, shouting ‘Gotcha!’ and laughing when he shrieked and fell off. Instead he thinks about the floor. He’s reached it - a warped, grimy landing. He draws himself up and tenuously stands, unwilling to test the integrity of his sanctuary by moving further in any direction. Besides, he’s got to get rid of his trail. He knows how. A memory rises up: a deep voice and a big hand stroking his hair, explaining away nightmares full of heat and smoke. Jordan turns, feels for the top rung of the ladder. He heaves.
His brain pounds out a word unheard over the squeal of rusty metal and the rush of blood in his ears: Seven.
Stuck. It’s stuck. Too rusty, old, warped. He pulls, twists, jiggles, jerks until he thinks his arms are going to pop out of their sockets; his hands scrape themselves raw but all he’s accomplished is a few squealing, squeaking inches that are undone the moment he gives up. He wishes a grown-up were here, or maybe his sister. But Lyssa would yell at him for climbing up here at all and tell him to march right on back home, and make him eat creamed corn, which he hates, and besides, she never protected him from the other boys anyway. She thinks they’re his friends. Still, as he hops up the jagged staircase, he’s overwhelmed by the need to run to her arms and give her a big squeezing hug.
“Eight!”
He can hear laughter and jeers among the chorus, suddenly louder and closer. They’re cheating; no fair! His throat hurts from not crying, so he gives up and hiccups loud, strangled sobs, scrambling on his hands and knees to the next landing, and the next. If he were Spiderman, he’d get out of this for sure. He’d just spider-crawl to their homes and tell on them or swing onto the roof or wrap them all up in a web and make them all sticky so they’d have to take baths. He’d use his Spidey Sense to see where he was even through the blindfold, and he wouldn’t be-
“Nine!”
A new wave of panic hits him. Jordan lurches it surges through his body. His lips feel plastered to his gums; rapid shallow breaths dizzy him. He drags his quaking limbs up another set. Now is a good time to try to get inside. He moves cross the landing bumping into a shaky railing that shudders at his touch. As springs away from it, his back rams into a doorknob. He yelps, spins, tugs. Locked! He gropes for another.
“TEN!”
No no no no no no no no no. The denial loops continuously in his head as he gives up and continues stumbling up the fire escape, turns getting more and more reckless. The structure shakes with the steps of frenzied pursuers, throwing him off balance even more. He grinds his teeth, trying to suppress the urge to sprint just a little faster, praying that the current distance between him and the demons is enough. He has no idea how high he is, how much further he has to go before the steps run out. Two more flights. The shaking gets worse. How close are they?
“Ready or noooooooooooot~”
A memory: a deep, round voice calling out those words, making him giggle from behind his mother’s dresses. A beam of light widening, a strong molasses-colored hand reaching down through floral prints to grab his shoulder and hoist him up, the other hand ready to tickle the refugee. But the image melts into a snarling face and a tearful mother, and then it fades altogether, replaced by his own sobs and the laughter of the boys below him.
The hyena-sounds are clearer, louder. He is losing ground. He surges onward. One, two, three more sets of stairs then…nothing. No more steps. Just a wobbly bar of metal between him and freefall. Wildly he feels for a door or a window or something - any means of escape from being cornered. His fingers close on another rusty ladder that shivers upon contact. The clamor of sneakers and boots on metal is almost deafening. No time no time no time. Jordan tries to dash up the ladder, but it’s too unstable for rushing. Slowing down is painful; his heart still beating frantically, his breathe ragged, searing his lungs.
Fingers brush the bottom of his shoes. He almost screams. The ladder convulses even more wildly. This time, a cry does escape his lips. The boys below him laugh, even as Jordan reaches the last rung. He grasps the curved top of the ladder like a drowning man - a real one, not somebody who just jumped off the top of a slide - would a plank of wood, hugging the roof’s edge and heaving himself over to the blessedly solid surface. For a moment, the shouts of those below dim to mutters, the Pirate Kings’ quarry temporarily out of sight. The relief is harder to take than the fear. It can’t last, this safety. They’ll follow him. They always do.
And as those below turn to bickering over who has to follow the little twerp, he’s whimpering, trembling, begging them to give up and leave him alone; he won’t not drown anymore, he’ll do whatever they want forever just not today no just go away, let him sit there, terrified and shivering and lost, let him sit there all night if they want, just let him stay there curled up and crying please please please just say the game is over and go home, go home and forget about him just for today…
His words, mumbled into his knees, are unheard. Below, they are torn between sure victory and the dubious nature of the ladder in front of them. Some of them look down, dizzied, at the street several stories below. ‘Crazy kid,’ they say to each other, shaking their heads. Finally, the group decides on Michael, the second-oldest. He’s the best at negotiations and has gotten them out of trouble with the minister and various parents plenty of times. Plus, he’s the closest one to the ladder. It’s a natural choice. He starts ascending, though much more slowly than Jordan had.
“Hey Jordan, get back down here.”
“No!” The rattling jolts his nerves; hypertense, he quivers, still crouched right in front of the ladder, unsure about where to go. Unable to see his surroundings, he’s got no chance of outracing the other kid without breaking his neck. The metallic cacophony grows ominously quiet.
“Seriously, come on. We’re not going to do anything to you.”
“Yeah right.”
Michael sighs, and Jordan can hear a foot step gingerly onto the roof. Jordan inches further away.
“You friggin idiot, the game’s over, okay? I found you, and now we’re all going to go back and play something else. Whatever you want, alright?”
An end to the game? Really? They’re not all going to tackle him first? Jordan uncurls himself and edges toward the other boy warily.
A memory: a big smile and a firm hand squeezing his shoulder. A powerful voice booming ‘Whatever you want, son.’ Saying ice cream was perfect, they’d go to the park with Lyssa right after he got back from work. Later, Jordan wondered how many days even a big strong Papa could work nonstop. He stood in the park looking at other papas and kids at the ice cream stand. Eventually he found enough pennies and dimes in the fountain to buy a cone for himself. It tasted sour.
“That’s right, keep coming and we’ll get you down from here; that’s it,” Michael says, cajoling. Jordan stops right in front of Michael, nerves still on overdrive. The other boy barks out a short laugh and makes Jordan twitch.
“Man, you really are crazy. Climbing all the way up here with this still on.” A hand brushes Jordan’s face.
Jordan screams, pulls both arms in front of himself and pushes. The body in front of him falls backward, unprepared for the assault. The rabble below freezes. The boys watch their comrade fall toward them. The platform quakes as Michael, finally over his shock enough to start shouting, hits the platform and one of the guardrails before falling through, unable to regain balance or check his momentum. Then: sickening silence.
Jordan pinwheels in front of the ladder, afraid of plummeting to the ground along with his enemy, before catching himself shakily on part of the top of the ladder. His neck hurts from the force of the blindfold being torn off his head. His eyes see what happens below him; the eyes he’d forgotten he hadn’t been using. They see the stunned faces looking up at him, see Michael’s body far away on the ground, see the kids running back down the rickety stairs. His ears hear the accusations and death threats flying up at him, the shouts of grown-ups, a horn honking. His eyes see these, too, matching them up with glares and waving hands and stopped cars.
His mind sees something else, a memory, a towering, muscular man leaning over a smaller, pale-faced man; a fierce, proud man ploughing big, strong fists into the cowardly ghost-man’s stomach; a mighty, righteous man with large bloody hands giving a limp, fishlike body one last kick. His mind hears a solemn, angry voice telling him ‘Son, don’t you ever let somebody think you can’t stand up for yourself. Grow up big and strong and love your Momma good but if someone ever starts something, you finish it. You fight back. Fight back hard. Got it?’
Jordan begins to run. He jumps back down the ladder and races back down the stairs. He weaves through the cluster of frightened boys, dodges the cop who tries to snag him as he passes the lifeless hand still clenching the knotted rag. He whips around corners and dumpsters, flies by the Flame of God, pounds past his apartment building where Lyssa is making mac ‘n’ cheese. As he sprints across the park, another, taller body pulls up next to him. They run together past the ice cream stand, around a clump of bushes, moving west. The reddening sun dips down to greet them.
‘I fought back,’ Jordan gasps, ‘Now what?’
Papa smiles, points at the crimson beaming between the skyscrapers.
Disappear.
Gravity
“One.”
He is tearing, darting, dashing down alleys, over low walls, behind dumpsters, dodging street signs and hobos, broken bottles and rusty bicycles. He: his mind. His body does not flee so easily - something the older boys have made sure of. The knot of the blindfold scratches Jordan’s head, rubbing maddeningly against the quarter-inch frizz no razor has ever successfully banished, but he doesn’t take it off. He can’t, or else he’ll ruin the game, and he’s already been punished today for that. Still is. He doesn’t want to know what happens if he messes up while paying for messing up. He clomps hesitantly for a few steps, fighting paralysis.
“Two.”
The boys love seeing him panic, love it when he runs into walls or slips off curbs, love how they’re more dangerous than anything he stumbles into during the chase. This is one of their favorite games. They’re even giving him a head start, a real one where they count slowly and loud enough for him to hear, a chorus of cacophonous screams that brings a sharp, quivering pain to his ears. He scurries away from their terrifying generosity, tripping over his loose shoelaces, wishing they were playing Volcano Monster Tag instead, because then there would be only one hunter and that’s not as scary.
“Three.”
They’ve played here before. The tiny, plastic playground behind the Flame of God Evangelist Church is better known to the neighborhood boys as the galley ship of the Pirate Kings, the Crusader’s Castle, or a jail from the Wild West. The hunt had been called this time when their prisoner failed to drown “good ‘nuff” after walking the plank. Jordan had been afraid they’d jump on top of him and squoosh his stomach and make the mulch poke into his neck if he fell over dead, but now he knows he should have risked it. Anything is better than Hide and Seek. But maybe this time he’ll win. He swivels to the left, remembering his plan.
“Four.”
After eight pounding steps he swings right, arms outstretched in a V, praying he won’t break his nose. His left fingers crumple, scraping brick. Jordan yips and shuffles to the right, away from the pain, his forward momentum making his movements jerky. He counts ten more steps. His stomach clenches, waiting for the void in front of him to yield something. It’s got to be there. He can’t afford to be wrong. The urge to shove the ripped, sweaty piece of T-shirt onto his forehead ripples through him along with his dread, but there’s no way to know if they’re watching, no time to find out, no point in trying to win if he’s going to cheat. He stumbles on, trusting his memory.
“Five.”
The hand that finds the rusty side of the fire escape ladder clamps down on it so fiercely the whiplash nearly yanks his arm off. He swings around, grabbing the rungs. Come on, come on! He stumbles up the ladder, grasping each rung with sweaty hands, trying to keep shaking legs and arms in contact with the metal. The rust bites into his hands or flakes off, forcing him to grab hold again. He waits for his hand to hit nothing but air.
“Six.”
The shouting is less distinct now; Jordan wonders if he’s imagining it. They could have sped up and finished, for all he knows. He doesn’t want to think about them creeping up behind him, reaching for his ankles, shouting ‘Gotcha!’ and laughing when he shrieked and fell off. Instead he thinks about the floor. He’s reached it - a warped, grimy landing. He draws himself up and tenuously stands, unwilling to test the integrity of his sanctuary by moving further in any direction. Besides, he’s got to get rid of his trail. He knows how. A memory rises up: a deep voice and a big hand stroking his hair, explaining away nightmares full of heat and smoke. Jordan turns, feels for the top rung of the ladder. He heaves.
His brain pounds out a word unheard over the squeal of rusty metal and the rush of blood in his ears: Seven.
Stuck. It’s stuck. Too rusty, old, warped. He pulls, twists, jiggles, jerks until he thinks his arms are going to pop out of their sockets; his hands scrape themselves raw but all he’s accomplished is a few squealing, squeaking inches that are undone the moment he gives up. He wishes a grown-up were here, or maybe his sister. But Lyssa would yell at him for climbing up here at all and tell him to march right on back home, and make him eat creamed corn, which he hates, and besides, she never protected him from the other boys anyway. She thinks they’re his friends. Still, as he hops up the jagged staircase, he’s overwhelmed by the need to run to her arms and give her a big squeezing hug.
“Eight!”
He can hear laughter and jeers among the chorus, suddenly louder and closer. They’re cheating; no fair! His throat hurts from not crying, so he gives up and hiccups loud, strangled sobs, scrambling on his hands and knees to the next landing, and the next. If he were Spiderman, he’d get out of this for sure. He’d just spider-crawl to their homes and tell on them or swing onto the roof or wrap them all up in a web and make them all sticky so they’d have to take baths. He’d use his Spidey Sense to see where he was even through the blindfold, and he wouldn’t be-
“Nine!”
A new wave of panic hits him. Jordan lurches it surges through his body. His lips feel plastered to his gums; rapid shallow breaths dizzy him. He drags his quaking limbs up another set. Now is a good time to try to get inside. He moves cross the landing bumping into a shaky railing that shudders at his touch. As springs away from it, his back rams into a doorknob. He yelps, spins, tugs. Locked! He gropes for another.
“TEN!”
No no no no no no no no no. The denial loops continuously in his head as he gives up and continues stumbling up the fire escape, turns getting more and more reckless. The structure shakes with the steps of frenzied pursuers, throwing him off balance even more. He grinds his teeth, trying to suppress the urge to sprint just a little faster, praying that the current distance between him and the demons is enough. He has no idea how high he is, how much further he has to go before the steps run out. Two more flights. The shaking gets worse. How close are they?
“Ready or noooooooooooot~”
A memory: a deep, round voice calling out those words, making him giggle from behind his mother’s dresses. A beam of light widening, a strong molasses-colored hand reaching down through floral prints to grab his shoulder and hoist him up, the other hand ready to tickle the refugee. But the image melts into a snarling face and a tearful mother, and then it fades altogether, replaced by his own sobs and the laughter of the boys below him.
The hyena-sounds are clearer, louder. He is losing ground. He surges onward. One, two, three more sets of stairs then…nothing. No more steps. Just a wobbly bar of metal between him and freefall. Wildly he feels for a door or a window or something - any means of escape from being cornered. His fingers close on another rusty ladder that shivers upon contact. The clamor of sneakers and boots on metal is almost deafening. No time no time no time. Jordan tries to dash up the ladder, but it’s too unstable for rushing. Slowing down is painful; his heart still beating frantically, his breathe ragged, searing his lungs.
Fingers brush the bottom of his shoes. He almost screams. The ladder convulses even more wildly. This time, a cry does escape his lips. The boys below him laugh, even as Jordan reaches the last rung. He grasps the curved top of the ladder like a drowning man - a real one, not somebody who just jumped off the top of a slide - would a plank of wood, hugging the roof’s edge and heaving himself over to the blessedly solid surface. For a moment, the shouts of those below dim to mutters, the Pirate Kings’ quarry temporarily out of sight. The relief is harder to take than the fear. It can’t last, this safety. They’ll follow him. They always do.
And as those below turn to bickering over who has to follow the little twerp, he’s whimpering, trembling, begging them to give up and leave him alone; he won’t not drown anymore, he’ll do whatever they want forever just not today no just go away, let him sit there, terrified and shivering and lost, let him sit there all night if they want, just let him stay there curled up and crying please please please just say the game is over and go home, go home and forget about him just for today…
His words, mumbled into his knees, are unheard. Below, they are torn between sure victory and the dubious nature of the ladder in front of them. Some of them look down, dizzied, at the street several stories below. ‘Crazy kid,’ they say to each other, shaking their heads. Finally, the group decides on Michael, the second-oldest. He’s the best at negotiations and has gotten them out of trouble with the minister and various parents plenty of times. Plus, he’s the closest one to the ladder. It’s a natural choice. He starts ascending, though much more slowly than Jordan had.
“Hey Jordan, get back down here.”
“No!” The rattling jolts his nerves; hypertense, he quivers, still crouched right in front of the ladder, unsure about where to go. Unable to see his surroundings, he’s got no chance of outracing the other kid without breaking his neck. The metallic cacophony grows ominously quiet.
“Seriously, come on. We’re not going to do anything to you.”
“Yeah right.”
Michael sighs, and Jordan can hear a foot step gingerly onto the roof. Jordan inches further away.
“You friggin idiot, the game’s over, okay? I found you, and now we’re all going to go back and play something else. Whatever you want, alright?”
An end to the game? Really? They’re not all going to tackle him first? Jordan uncurls himself and edges toward the other boy warily.
A memory: a big smile and a firm hand squeezing his shoulder. A powerful voice booming ‘Whatever you want, son.’ Saying ice cream was perfect, they’d go to the park with Lyssa right after he got back from work. Later, Jordan wondered how many days even a big strong Papa could work nonstop. He stood in the park looking at other papas and kids at the ice cream stand. Eventually he found enough pennies and dimes in the fountain to buy a cone for himself. It tasted sour.
“That’s right, keep coming and we’ll get you down from here; that’s it,” Michael says, cajoling. Jordan stops right in front of Michael, nerves still on overdrive. The other boy barks out a short laugh and makes Jordan twitch.
“Man, you really are crazy. Climbing all the way up here with this still on.” A hand brushes Jordan’s face.
Jordan screams, pulls both arms in front of himself and pushes. The body in front of him falls backward, unprepared for the assault. The rabble below freezes. The boys watch their comrade fall toward them. The platform quakes as Michael, finally over his shock enough to start shouting, hits the platform and one of the guardrails before falling through, unable to regain balance or check his momentum. Then: sickening silence.
Jordan pinwheels in front of the ladder, afraid of plummeting to the ground along with his enemy, before catching himself shakily on part of the top of the ladder. His neck hurts from the force of the blindfold being torn off his head. His eyes see what happens below him; the eyes he’d forgotten he hadn’t been using. They see the stunned faces looking up at him, see Michael’s body far away on the ground, see the kids running back down the rickety stairs. His ears hear the accusations and death threats flying up at him, the shouts of grown-ups, a horn honking. His eyes see these, too, matching them up with glares and waving hands and stopped cars.
His mind sees something else, a memory, a towering, muscular man leaning over a smaller, pale-faced man; a fierce, proud man ploughing big, strong fists into the cowardly ghost-man’s stomach; a mighty, righteous man with large bloody hands giving a limp, fishlike body one last kick. His mind hears a solemn, angry voice telling him ‘Son, don’t you ever let somebody think you can’t stand up for yourself. Grow up big and strong and love your Momma good but if someone ever starts something, you finish it. You fight back. Fight back hard. Got it?’
Jordan begins to run. He jumps back down the ladder and races back down the stairs. He weaves through the cluster of frightened boys, dodges the cop who tries to snag him as he passes the lifeless hand still clenching the knotted rag. He whips around corners and dumpsters, flies by the Flame of God, pounds past his apartment building where Lyssa is making mac ‘n’ cheese. As he sprints across the park, another, taller body pulls up next to him. They run together past the ice cream stand, around a clump of bushes, moving west. The reddening sun dips down to greet them.
‘I fought back,’ Jordan gasps, ‘Now what?’
Papa smiles, points at the crimson beaming between the skyscrapers.
Disappear.