Eating Dirt (Free Fiction)

Eating Dirt

A.J. Brown

The ground ate Ronald today.  He jumped from the tree we had climbed, landed on both feet and kept from tumbling to the ground by putting a hand on it to steady himself. 

“Your turn, Gordie,” he yelled up at me. 

I shook my head, not so certain jumping was a good idea. If I landed wrong, I could blow out my knee, break an ankle, or worse, smash my skull. 

“I … I can’t, Ronald. It’s too high, man.”

He laughed. “You’re kidding right, Gordie?”

I shook my head again. “No. It’s really high. I don’t think I can …

He gave me a boo-hoo and pretended to rub his eyes with his hands, “Quit your crying and jump, man.”

“I can’t.” I hated the whine in my voice. I hated feeling like a wimp. But that didn’t stop me from staying put where I was at in the tree, my butt perched against a thick limb, one hand hugging to the trunk.

“Don’t be a chicken, Gordie,” he yelled, as he craned his neck to look up at me. He clucked and strutted in a circle, fingers tucked in his armpits, elbows out and flapping. “Gordie is a chicken. Gordie is a chicken.”

Heat filled my face, shame filled my heart. “Am not.”

“Are too.”

autumn-351489_1920I started down, one foot on the branch beneath me, both arms holding the one I had been sitting on.

“Chickens don’t jump,” he yelled.

I tried not to listen, but he was right. It took all my courage to climb that high in the first place—heights and I never got along, but I had been afraid Ronald would pick on me, or maybe even beat me up if I didn’t climb the tree. He was mean like that. 

Looking down, my head swooned. I thought I would fall, strike a few limbs on the way down and break my head open. My heart fluttered and my stomach rolled. I grabbed a branch with one hand and wrapped my other arm around it.

“I’m not a chicken,” I yelled back, my voice shaky. “I’m just scared.”

“You’re a big, fat chicken,” Ronald yelled back as I lowered myself to the bottom limb. I was about to lower myself further so I could sit on it and drop to the ground from there. Still, breaking an ankle was possible even from only about six feet up. 

Then the ground shifted beneath him. It was like the earth moved under his feet. His eyes grew wide and he looked down. The grass parted and the ground opened up, sucking Ronald in to just below the knees. The ground closed just as quickly, like a teeth biting down on a piece of meat.

Ronald screamed.  

I screamed. 

From where I was in the tree it looked like Ronald had been pulled into the ground by some invisible mouth. I scampered back up the tree, one branch, a second one, third and fourth, until I was back up as high as I had ever been, gawking down as the ground ate Ronald.  By then, he was thigh deep in the shifting dirt and trying to grab a hold of anything to pull himself up.

“Gordie, help me!”

Too terrified to move, I could only watch. Blood appeared in the sand around his thighs and spread outward.

“Gordie, help me, please!”

Waist deep, Ronald reached out as far as he could, clawed at the ground. His hand sunk into the earth, followed by his arm up to his elbow. I climbed higher into the tree, height and I no longer bitter enemies. I closed my eyes and clutched tight to the tree with both arms as I stood on a branch I hoped would hold me.

Ronald’s screams echoed in my ears for several seconds. Then he went silent. I glanced down. Ronald was gone. A moment later, the ground burped. It’s the only thing that makes sense—an earthly burp. One of Ronald’s shoes popped up from the dirt and grass, the shoelace still knotted, a bloody sock lying limp inside it.

Now I sit high in this tree, the ground beneath me; Ronald’s shoe and sock taunting me. I know if I jump down and try to run, the earth will get me too, maybe not as quickly as it ate Ronald—it’s had a dog and two squirrels since then. Occasionally, it burps, the ground shakes and a bone or some fur pop out of the dirt. Then it settles down and waits.

I think I’ll stay here a while. Maybe the ground will go to sleep. Maybe I really am a chicken.

__________

Back in 2010 there was an anthology titled, The Elements of Horror. As the title suggest, all the stories had to be based on an element: Earth, air, fire, water and space. When I saw the call for submissions, I wanted to write a story based on each element. I thought it was plausible seeing how the word count was under 750 words per story. I ended up writing four pieces with the only element missing being space. Two of those pieces were published in the anthology, Eating Dirt being one of them.

I’ve since rewritten a couple of the stories, including the one you read here today. It’s short and simple and I hope you enjoyed Eating Dirt. Also, please comment on the post, like and share it to social media for me. I thank you from the top of my heart.

AJB

Courage (Free Fiction)

Courage

A.J. Brown

Carrie rounded the corner and came to an abrupt stop. Several kids—older than her, she thought—ran toward and by her, most of them looking back. She didn’t need to ask what was going on or why everyone was running. She could see.

Patrick Mason held his lunch box in front of him as a shield, Spongebob on the lid. His green eyes were big ovals full of tears. His bottom lip trembled, and a whine came from his throat. His back was pressed into the corner, his left shoulder taking a poking from one of Marty Hatfield’s meaty fingers. The big bully towered over him, his long brown hair hanging along the sides of his face. His shirt and pants were a matching black and a chain ran from his back pocket to a belt loop on his hip. 

“You watch where you’re going, wimp,” Marty growled. He leaned down until his nose was inches from Patrick’s. “Do you understand me or are you too dumb for that?”

Patrick didn’t move. Neither did Carrie. She stared at the bully and the victim, her eyes as big as Patrick’s, her hands clutching tight to the straps of the little pink book bag on her back. Her heart pounded. She wanted to turn, to hurry around the corner in hopes that Marty wouldn’t see her.

That hope fled when Patrick’s eyes shifted from the bully to her. Marty turned in her direction. His brown eyes were slits, and his lips pulled down in an angry frown.

“What are you looking at, pigeon toes?” he yelled. Spittle flew from his mouth.

Though Patrick didn’t speak, his eyes begged, Please help!

“Nothing,” Carrie said, shaking her head quickly. She’d seen this type of thing layout before. Angry monster and weak victim. Family life had showed her that scenario all too often. Interfering with the monster meant attracting it’s wrath. 

“That’s right, little girl. You haven’t seen a thing. Get out of here.”

Carrie shook her head and retreated the way she came. She half hobbled, half ran, her feet pointed in, as they always had. She rounded the corner and continue along the hall, her heart in her throat, fear tapping her on the shoulder until she reached the exit and pushed on the door. It opened with a loud, metallic clank and she burst through it and started down the steps, her legs carrying her as fast as they would go. Halfway down, she stopped. Her breaths came in labored gasps, her heart thump thumped, and tears fell down her cheeks. She leaned over, her hands clutching tight to her knees.

“I’m safe,” she said between breaths. “I’m safe. He didn’t … he didn’t …”

Carrie looked back at the door so suddenly she almost pitched sideways. That would have been bad. With at least seven more steps to the bottom, the fall would have been painful and worse, she believed, than Marty Hatfield smacking her once or twice. The door was closed. There was no Marty there. He hadn’t had second thoughts about the little girl who saw him beating up the special needs kid who didn’t bother anyone.

“I’m safe,” she said and took a deep breath.

What about Patrick?

She shook her head. “He’s not my problem.” 

Carrie made her way down to the sidewalk, got a few feet onto the lawn before she stopped again.

She recalled his wide eyes, the message in them: Please help. He was scared, and she left him with Marty Hatfield. “I can’t help him. Marty’s much bigger than me, and he is mean. I’m not mean. I’m just … me.”

But Patrick is little and … and …

Carrie looked back at the school. Its red brick structure looked uninviting. The steps looked like a long white tongue; the doors like a giant mouth, hungry for little girl flesh. She thought the halls were the monster’s throat and Marty waited in its belly to finish off what the teeth of the giant beast didn’t. A shiver traced up her spine, sending chill bumps along her arms, legs and neck.

“There’s nothing I can do.”

lockersCarrie looked down at her feet, ashamed for leaving the kid behind, but terrified of the bully who had everyone else running, too. Her toes pointed inward. Her shoes were heavy clod hoppers, the insoles soft foam pads to support her high arches. She hated that she had been born with ‘defected’ ankles and legs. She was a  ‘pigeon toed brat’ as her dad put it once when he was in an alcohol fueled grumpy mood.

Defected. 

Pigeon toed.

She frowned. If the only thing wrong with her were a couple of turned in feet and she got picked on for it, how much worse was it for Patrick, who was small for his age, frail in some eyes, painfully shy and who often found it difficult to talk?

Can’t someone help him?

With that thought came a second, more powerful one. You’re someone.

“But … but …”

Carrie’s shoulders sagged. Her conscious was right. No one else would help Patrick. Everyone ran. But she had seen him cornered by Marty, had seen that fat finger poking into Patrick’s shoulder, had seen those sad green eyes begging for her to help him.

She looked up to the sky as tears tugged at her eyes. White tufts of cotton hung in the canvas of blue. An  airplane flew by high enough she couldn’t hear it. “I’m only ten,” she said. Her eyes remained on the sky, on the airplane that quickly faded from view, as if waiting on something from high above to tell her ‘it’s okay, Carrie, don’t worry about Patrick, he’ll be all right.’ No voice came, and deep inside she knew Patrick wasn’t going to be all right.

“Okay. Okay.”

Carrie took a deep breath, let it out and wiped at her eyes. She started back toward the school. At the steps, she looked up into the mouth of the beast, never minding she was already on its tongue. She took the steps one at a time, reached the landing and then the door. The handle was cool in her sweaty palm.

Another breath.

I can’t do this, her mind screamed. Her father would have left Patrick to his own devices. He would have called him a little wimp who needs a good beating to right his ship. She hated her dad. He had been a bully, just like Marty.

“I have to,” she said. “No one else will.”

She opened the door and took several steps up the hall, her shoes clopping hard on the floor. Carrie looked down at the black and white shoes, the heavy soles and toes made it impossible to walk quietly. She sat down, unlaced them and pulled them free. With a shoe in each hand, she hobbled up the hall, her toes pointed in, her hips and shoulders swaying with each step.

She heard crying, even before she reached the corner. No doubt Marty had hit Patrick by now. Her heart sank into her stomach. Her skin felt cold. Her breaths were sharp and quick.

The sound of a hand on skin stopped her short of the corner. Her heart stopped right along with her feet. More crying came, and one strangled word was mixed in there, “Please.”

“Please what!?” Marty yelled.

“Please.”

“Please what?!” Another slap came. 

“Please.”

“Please what?” Marty yelled again.

Her breath came back to her and she forced herself to round the corner. When she did, her stomach knotted and she thought she would throw up.

Marty stood over Patrick, his hands clutched into fists. Patrick’s lunch box lay open on the floor, its contents spilled out. Patrick lay in the fetal position, his hands over his head, but not doing a good job of covering it. His bottom lip bled and there was a red hand print on the side of his face.

“Please,” Patrick said.

“Please what!?” Marty raised his fist.

“Please stop!” Carrie yelled.

Marty turned. His face was red, but Carrie didn’t think he was embarrassed. Maybe surprised, but not embarrassed. She thought he looked joyful, like her father had when he beat her mom. “Look at you,” he snarled. “Little pigeon-toed girl coming to save the special needs kid?”

Anger raced through her veins. Heat filled her face and ran into her neck. Her heart sped up. The look of fear she saw on Patrick’s face was the same as the one on her mom’s before … before she fought back, before she finally did something about the monster terrorizing them. “Leave him alone,” she growled.

Marty stepped over Patrick and glared at Carrie. His hands were still clutched into tight fists. “What if I don’t?”

She didn’t know how to answer that question. She just knew to act, and she did. With all the strength she could muster, she slung one of her heavy shoes at Marty. This time surprise bordering on shock appeared on his face. The heavy heel of the shoe struck him in the chest, knocking the wind out of him. He stumbled backward. His feet bumped into one of Patrick’s legs. His arms pinwheeled as he tried to keep his balance. He fell, landing hard on his bottom. His head struck the wall. Both hands went up to the back of his skull.

“Get up, Patrick,” she said and tottered over to him. She held one hand out. He took it and stood. He looked down at Marty, who still lay on the floor holding his head. “It’s okay, Patrick. He’s not going to hurt you anymore.” To Marty she said, “Are you?”

“I’ll get you for this,” Marty said. All of the intimidation he exuded seconds earlier was now gone.

Carrie thought of her dad, of her mom and the fear she experienced because of him. She knew Marty meant what he said and he could be even more dangerous now. But he had been bested, by a girl at that. He would threaten her, but that was all he would do. She knew this as surely as she knew her dad would never lay another hand on her mom. 

“No, you won’t,” she said and took Patrick’s hand. “You’re going to leave me alone, and you’re going to leave him alone. You’re going to leave everyone alone. ‘Cause if you don’t, they won’t find you, just like they won’t find my dad.”

Marty’s eyes grew large. There was now fear in them. His jaw hung open and one hand still rubbed the back of his head. 

“Do you understand?”

Marty shook his head slowly. 

“Let’s go, Patrick,” Carrie said. 

The two rounded the corner and left the building without looking back. Outside, she wiped his mouth with the sleeve of her shirt.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice soft. It was the first time she had heard him talk.

Carrie smiled, shrugged her shoulders and tussled his brown hair. “You’re welcome.”

Like her mom, Patrick no longer looked scared.

__________

This story was based on a simple prompt: Courage. It was a contest entry, one of several thousand entered for one monetary prize. Sadly, this piece didn’t win the story, but that is okay. I got a cool story about a bully being stopped in the act of terrorizing a smaller kid. 

If you enjoyed Courage, please like, share and comment. I truly appreciate it.

S.A.M.M (Free Fiction)

S.A.M.M.

A.J. Brown

It was an odd sight, one I didn’t expect to see when I ran into the woods, the bullies on my heels, their calls of ‘You’re going to get it when we catch you,’ still loud in my ears. I believed them, too. I wasn’t like everyone else. I wasn’t popular and I didn’t come from the best family, with the best clothes and three cars in the driveway and a nice house with all the bells and whistles. We weren’t the nuclear family with a mom and dad and 2.5 kids.

No, we lived on the other side of the tracks in a small house in a rough neighborhood where gunshots weren’t uncommon at two in the morning. I rode the bus to and from school and we hung our clothes out on a clothesline after we brought them home from the laundromat. Yeah, we couldn’t afford to dry the clothes, just wash them. I wore hand-me-downs from Aunt Rosalyn’s neighbors, and most of those clothes were too big for me. 

I was different. Daddy was white and Momma was black in a time that type of relationship was still frowned upon. My skin was the wrong tint of white and the wrong shade of black. I guess, having to deal with that, I saw things differently. I still do, but back then, when I was a young girl trying to find my way in a mean world, seeing things differently was just as bad as being a ‘gray baby.’ And I think that is why I came across SAMM. Yes, SAMM, with two M’s–It stands for Sand And Mud Man.

The bullies–Jack Olson, Mickey Darbey, and Knollwood Herring–had chased me from school that afternoon (like so many others). And, like so many others, I ran as fast as I could, hoping and praying those three white boys wouldn’t catch me. If they did …

I made it to the woods and ran right through the branches of some smaller trees, creating my own pathway and stumbling along as I went. They stopped at the edge of the woods, as if they were afraid to follow. I did not stop. I ran until I reached the stream that split the woods in half. By then I could no longer hear their taunts. I dropped to the ground, my knees sinking into the soft mud of the stream’s embankment. I put my face in my hands and cried. I pulled my hands away and looked at the right one. There was blood on the palm. I wiped at my cheek. At some point, a branch must have sliced skin because when I pulled my fingers away bright blood was on the tips. 

Staring at the blood, my mind slowed to a crawl and asked a question. How was I going to survive another day with those jerks around, much less the remainder of the school year? 

I slid onto my bottom and scooted back against one of the cypress trees, wedging myself between the upraised roots in order to get comfortable. I didn’t care about the mud on my pants–again, hand-me-downs, a size two big, a pair I just wanted to chunk anyway. Mom might be mad, and I would have to explain to her why they were so dirty. What was I going to say? What was I going to do? 

And the tears flowed. A snot runner escaped my nose and I wiped it away with the back of one hand. 

Then I saw It. It stood on the other side of the stream, a dirty, gray stone creature that looked as if it had been chiseled right out of the wall of a mountainside. Its features were rough, and its arms came almost down to its feet like a rocky gorilla, but it stood straight, not hunched over. Its face was square and its jaw jutted out, a mouth carved into it, complete with three teeth. Its eyes were hollowed out holes that held darkness in them—something so deep it made me shiver to look at. Though it seemed like someone had just dropped it into the woods without a care, the large, thick vines that were tethered to its wrists and ankles told me this creature, this thing, had been placed there intentional. Whatever it was, this thing was dangerous.

I stood, my heart pounding harder than it had when I fled a beating I was sure to get later. I stared up at the thing. It couldn’t have been much more than a statue someone no longer wanted, an art project gone terribly wrong, maybe. I didn’t know, but it fascinated and terrified me all at once.

Stream 2Carefully, I approached it, tip-toeing as if to keep it from hearing me. A twig snapped under foot and I was startled as if someone had fired a gun. My hands went over my head and I dropped to the ground. I think I screamed. When it didn’t move, I cautiously stood and continued toward it. I reached the edge of the stream and stepped into the icy water. Chills raced up my legs and tailbone and right into my spine. The water soaked through my sneakers and holy socks, but I didn’t care. Seconds later, the cuffs of my oversized jeans were wet all the way up to my shins. 

On that side of the stream I could see it better. The stone of the sunken into the ground feet was covered in green moss that travelled up its legs and just passed both knees. The stone was also weathered and cracked and chipped. There were grooves where rain had worn away pieces of it. The knees and elbows were hinged, and the shoulders and wrists were ball sockets. The vines that held it in place were more like branches, thick and brown and green, leaves clinging to it. 

But it was its chest that caught my attention and held it for the longest time. The stone had been smashed in and the edges of the hole were a much darker gray, as if

(it had a heart, Meghan)

it had bled, but that was impossible. It was nothing but rock. Rocks don’t bleed.

I reached up and let my fingers trace along the ridges of the hole. It was rough, and some of the edges were dull, but a few of them were sharp like glass. 

It moved.

I pulled my hand away with a scream in my throat. A sharp pain ripped through two fingers. I stumbled backward, my foot slipping in the mud. I tripped on a rock and landed in the water. My scream was cut off by the shocked inhalation of chilly air as the water spilled over me. I scrambled to turn around, fell back in, this time face first. I swallowed gritty stream water before I was able to get my hands beneath me and shove myself up. I stood, soaked from head to toe, and hurried out of the water. 

On dry ground, I ran to the tree I had sat at when I noticed the thing, and hid behind it.

My breaths were loud, a wheeze coming from my chest. I whispered silently, “Please don’t hurt me. Please, don’t hurt me. Please, don’t hurt me,” all while my mind screamed Run!

It spoke two words, its voice deep and, for a lack of better term, gravelly. 

“Help me.”

I wasn’t sure I heard it correctly, so I remained with my back firmly planted against the cypress tree and my feet on two of the roots jutting up from the ground. Then it came again, and this time I heard the sadness in its voice. Or maybe it was pain.

“Help me.”

It didn’t matter if it was sad or in pain, or even if it was scary, I heard something in its voice that said, ‘I am here and I am alive and I need help.’

I turned around and placed my stomach to the tree. Slowly I eased my head from behind it so I could see the creature. Its head was down and moving slowly from side to side as if looking at the vines that bound it to the ground like chains. 

With each movement of its head came the rumble of stone on stone. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought it was crying and the sound wasn’t the rubbing of two rocks together, but the sound of its voice as it bawled like a little baby.

I stepped from behind the tree, and eased a few feet off to the side. When I did, it looked up. What could only be tears spilled from its hollow eye sockets, creating black streaks along its gray face. Its jaw looked as if it were trembling. It cocked its head to the side and lifted its arms as high as they would go, which wasn’t much further than his thighs.

“Help me.”

“How?” I asked. I wasn’t scared. That’s the thing. I wasn’t scared, though I should have been. This creature made of rocks should have terrified me, but in that moment, with everything I had been through over the previous couple of years, I felt a connection with it. “How can I help you?”

It cocked its head to the side again, something I immediately found endearing, and then it looked down at its wrists and the vines that held him.

(You have to set him free, Meghan)

He raised his arms again, this time pulling the vines as tight as they would go. 

“I can’t break those,” I said.

Without realizing, I had approached it. My toes were on the edge of the stream when I became aware of how close I was to it. Water gently lapped against my shoes. For a few seconds we stood looking at each other.

“Please.”

How can you say no to some … thing that says ‘please?’

I crossed the stream and stepped onto the other side. At first I tried to pull the vines from the ground. What was I thinking? If it couldn’t pull them free, how did I expect myself to pull them free? Still, I strained for about two minutes, my face growing hot and my arms and legs tugging for all I was worth. My hands slid up the vine, pulling the skin away from my fingers. I looked at one hand and saw the slices in the two fingers and blood spilling from them. 

“Wow, that’s deep,” I said, then up to the creature, I spoke, “I can’t pull them from the ground. Do you have any suggestions?”

Honestly, I didn’t expect anything, but it did have a suggestion. “Cut.”

“Cut? Do you mean cut the vine?”

His neck rumbled as he nodded.

“I don’t have a knife.”

He craned the round ball that was his neck toward the water. 

“Rock.”

I looked at the water. It was the first time I actually heard the sound of it babbling along, flowing over the rocks and along the embankments. The peacefulness of it relaxed my muscles and cleared my mind. I don’t know how long I stood there staring down into the stream, looking at the many rocks there without seeing them. The stone on stone grind shook me from the nothingness that had swept over me. In the water was a rock, about the size of my hand and flat. It looked like it could have been apart of an old Native American tomahawk. I reached down, the water like ice to my skin, and worked my fingers beneath the edge of the rock and the sand that held it. Silt washed away with the roll of the stream and the rock came free.

The rock was the same gray as the creature, and it no longer looked like it could have been part of a tomahawk, but something else a heart, maybe. 

“Please,” it repeated.

“Okay.”

I stepped out of the water and knelt down on the ground next to one of the vines. 

“Can you pull it tight?”

It lifted its arm as far as it would go and the vine stiffened. I ran my hand along it, snatching leaves from their anchors as I did so. Then I lifted the rock above my head and brought it down as hard as I could. The tip tore a small chunk from the vine and the creature bellowed, a sound like it was in a pain so horrible it would crumble and collapse to the ground or face first into the stream.

“What? What’s wrong?” I stood, backed away and looked up at it.

The tears were back and streaming down its face and dripping off of its chiseled chin. One of his fingers pointed at the rock in my hand. I looked down and almost dropped it. It had been wet earlier, but it had been gray. Now, it held a dusty purple tint to it. At first I thought it may have been smudges of blood from my sliced fingers, but then I rolled it over in my hands and realized it was pulsing, as if it was a beating heart.

I know my eyes became wide. I don’t know how I didn’t drop the rock to the ground or back into the stream. 

“Is this your heart?”

A rumbling nod came from it. “Put back.”

“Put back? You mean, back into the water?”

A shake of the head was followed by, “No. Put back.” Though its arm was tethered with the vine, it turned its hand over and pointed the best it could to the hole in its chest.

“Put it back there?” 

He nodded again.

I stepped in front of him and stood on the tips of my toes. I held its heart in my one hand and stretched as far as I could. Even then I couldn’t get the heart back into the hole. I was too short. 

“I can’t reach,” I said and rocked back on my heels. “Can you …”

“Well, well, well. Look what we have here, boys. It’s the mix breed.”

Startled, two things happened all at once. First, I lunged upward and pushed the rock into the hole of its chest. Second, I spun, tipping myself off balance and pitching forward in the wet mud. I almost righted myself, but my momentum splashed me into the stream, again face first. For a second or two my head was under the water and in that brief amount of time I had never been more afraid of anything. A thought, fleeting but very possible, darted through my mind: what if they pounced on me as I lay in the water? 

Get up! Get up, Meghan!

They would drown me.

My heart leapt into my throat and the very real fear of dying pounced on me, just as I expected Jack Olson, Mickey Darbey, and Knollwood Herring to do. As I pulled my head from the water, that is exactly what they were about to do. They spilled from the trees, each one carrying their own brand of nastiness. My mind screamed, Surely they wouldn’t beat up a girl, but the part of me who had always dealt with people like them, both young and old, knew that is exactly what they intended to do.

I tried to stand, but slipped on the rocks and fell back into the stream. 

They laughed and it sounded like the cackles of hungry hyenas. I pushed myself up to see Knollwood splashing into the water and reaching for me, his big hands on the ends of tree trunk sized arms, a lock of his dark hair dangling in front of his dull brown eyes. I tried to turn, to run away, but he wasn’t going to let that happen again.

“Hey, gray girl,” he said and grabbed me around my waist, lifting me up out of the water. “We’re going to have some fun with you.”

My mind screamed. My voice followed. Their laughter grew louder.

I didn’t think, so much as acted. I swung an elbow back, connecting with the side of Knollwood’s head. He cursed and flung me to the other side of the stream where both Mickey and Jack waited. I landed on my hip. The pain tore down one leg and up into my back. I cried out with the new found soreness in my lower body. 

“You’re going to pay for that, gray girl,” Knollwood said. He held his ear and stomped from the water. He gave a nod and one of the other two boys grabbed a handful of my hair.

“Get up.” It was Mickey. He pulled me to my feet by that handful of hair. I tried not to scream but I was scared and cornered and there was nothing I could do. Three against one and I would be destroyed.

Knollwood approached me, hands in tight fists, that angry sneer on his face. I didn’t expect the first thing that happened. The second one, I did. Knollwood spat in my face. That was the unexpected thing. The punch to my jaw was the expected one. it was hard and jarring and my head snapped to one side. Blood filled my mouth where my teeth caught the inside of it. 

I couldn’t help the tears that fell. At that moment I not only hated my three tormentors, I hated myself. I had been bullied my whole life because I was different, because my parents were different colors and my skin was not quite brown, but not quite white. It was that natural tan most teenage girls want. Momma always said, ‘Some people God bakes a little slower and they turn out white. Some people God bakes a little longer and they turn out black. You, Meggie, you God baked just long enough and you turned out perfect.’

I didn’t feel so perfect right then. Truthfully, I never felt perfect, not even around my family. 

A slap came to the back of my head, a heavy, stinging sensation. That was followed by a fist around the same spot. My ears began to ring and pain exploded inside my head. My stomach rolled and I suddenly felt like I would throw up. Before I did I glanced up. Everything was hazy. Knollwood was a blur of white flesh that moved in jerky motions. Their voices were now echoes in my humming head. The world around me ran together. Before the punch to my stomach sent me to my knees and Mickey let go of me, something moved behind Knollwood. It wasn’t the wind in the trees or an animal. I couldn’t quite make out what it was, just that it was on the other side of the stream.

Then came that last, gut rending punch. The air flushed from my lungs and I was falling. I landed in the water, again, face first. The pain in my midsection was dull, but intense and the rush of the stream played in my ears like a song I would hate my entire life. I pushed myself from the water to try and take a breath, but no air reentered my lungs. A snot bubble rolled out of my nose and my mouth hung open.

Then came my death. Okay, what I thought would be my death. My mind was scrambled and I couldn’t breathe and I heard this weird laughter and taunts from the boys and this other sound … this sound like stones rolling down a hill. A hand grabbed me by the back of my neck and shoved my face into the water. My forehead struck one of the rocks, but that pain didn’t matter. What mattered was I was going to drown right there in a stream barely a foot deep because I was different. At least the sound of the water was in my head and not their hateful voices. At least that would be the last thing I heard.

Spots formed beneath my closed eyelids as water rushed into my mouth and filled my nose. My head thumped. There was a train on the tracks of my skull and it’s horn was loud. My ears popped and my stomach begged for air it would not get.

Then, just as suddenly as the attack had begun, it ended. The weight holding my head in the water was gone, but I was weak and could barely push myself up. The muscles in my arms gave out the first time. The edges of my life were closing in on me. The locomotive in my skull was bearing down and about to crush my head. The water in my lungs …

You’re going to die if you don’t get out of the water, Megan!

And I was out of the water. I don’t know how I got my arms beneath me, but I did. I crawled to the edge of the stream and collapsed onto the muddy embankment. From somewhere in the world, I heard screams and those rolling stones tumbling down a mountain. I coughed several times and water spilled from my mouth. I rolled onto my side, my hand ending up in the water. The locomotive in my head was still there, but its horn was now off in the distance. I tried to open my eyes, but the only thing I wanted to do right then was lay still, not move and pray wherever the three bullies had gone, they would not be back. Eventually, the pain in my lungs and chest and stomach and head subsided and I dozed off into the black land I thought was death. Honestly, I welcomed it.

I didn’t die. That’s obvious, based on this writing. I woke up on the embankment still on my side. My body ached and my head still thumped its angry tune. My hair was matted to my face and my jaw was swollen. The residual bitter tastes of blood lingered on my tongue. 

I opened my eyes, my vision blurry at first. Slowly, it cleared and my heart almost stopped. Hunched over in the stream next to me was the stone creature. It stared at me with its darkened eye sockets. I tried to scream, but nothing more than a whisper came out. If he meant to finish the job Knollwood, Jack and Mickey started, here was his chance and I couldn’t fight it. I was tired of it all, tired of being different and of being bullied because of it; tired of being looked at like I was a freak show. 

It reached down with one stone finger and stroked my face. It was cold to the touch. 

“Okay?”

It took a few seconds to realize he had spoken and it wasn’t a word of hate, but one of concern. He repeated it.

“Okay?”

I sat up. My stomach rumbled and I barely got my head turned before I threw up grimy, gritty water, mixed with blood. My face was hot and sweat spilled off my forehead. My stomach lurched a second time, but nothing came out. I wiped my mouth, turned to the creature.

“I’m sorry.”

It shook his head several times, as if to say not to be.

I looked around. The world was back to normal. The trees were brown and green, the water of the stream was mostly clear, the rocks appearing to wave with the ripples of the water as it rolled on by. The embankment I sat on was wet and muddy. And there were foot prints in them, most of them clustered around where I sat. 

“Where are they?” I asked, fear leaping up into my chest. I got on my knees quickly. My head swam and black dots clouded my vision. Dropping to my hands, I took several deep breaths until everything came back and the edges of my vision was normal again. 

“Gone,” it said.

“Gone?”

It nodded. “Gone.”

“Where’d they go?”

It lifted its hand and pointed behind him. 

I started to move so I could see, but decided not to. A strong realization swept over me right then. That rolling stone sound I had heard when they were trying to drown me, that odd movement I had seen before they shoved my head under the water had been the creature that sat beside me. 

“Thank you,” I said. I didn’t need to look for them. I also didn’t need to know they would never bother me, or anyone else, ever again.

“Thank you,” he repeated back. It wasn’t a question, as if he was asking why I said that, but it was more something he was saying back to me. I didn’t get it at first. When I looked up at him, I saw the hole in his chest was no longer there. Instead, it was closed up, though there were cracks and creases in the stone. 

The rock I had found in the water had been his heart. Before, I wasn’t sure, but right then I knew. I also knew, his thank you was just as much for me saving him as mine had been for him saving me.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

His head rolled to the side, rumbling as it did so. Though the dark sockets didn’t change, there was something quizzical in them.

“Name?”

I nodded. “What do they call you?”

He tapped his chest with one finger and shook his head slowly. “No name.”

“You don’t have a name?”

Again, he shook his head from side to side.

For several seconds I sat, staring at him. I looked at the ground. One of my hands had sunk into the mud. I looked back at him. “SAMM.”

Again, his head cocked to the side. “SAMM?”

“That is your name. SAMM—Sand and Mud Man.”

He—because it was a he—nodded at this. “SAMM.”

I stood, my muscles ached and my body hurt. The sun was setting, casting an orange and purple hue on the world. Soon the sky would turn gray and that would be swallowed up by the early darkness of night. I was not going to get home before any of that happened, but I didn’t have to worry about being chased and beaten and drowned by hateful people. My worry was Momma and Daddy and them being angry that I was late from school, by several hours. I would have to explain where I had been and what had happened to me. I wasn’t sure what I would say, but I hoped once I told them what had happened, they would believe me. 

“I have to go,” I said. “But I’ll come back. I promise.”

“Go?”

“Yeah. I have to leave. I have to go home. My parents are probably really worried about me and …”

“Home?”

“Yeah. Home. The place where I live.”

SAMM stood. The ground shook beneath me when he did so. He craned his neck back and looked off into the trees. “Home.”

My heart hurt for him. I didn’t know how long he had been out there, tethered to the ground. I also know I would have been dead if not for him. But the reality of where I was and what had happened started to sink in and I knew I had to leave; I had to get home. I also knew I would return, the next day if I wasn’t in so much trouble. 

“Bye SAMM,” I said. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Okay?”

“Bye,” he repeated and gave a little wave. 

With tears tugging at the corners of my eyes, I went back through the trees, the same ones I and three bullies had come through earlier in the day. I came out where I had went in and I hurried home as darkness settled in. As I neared my house I thought about how ridiculous my story would sound. There was no way they would believe me. But I didn’t have anything else and I didn’t have the time to make up a lie, or a series of them.

I walked up the sidewalk that led to our small house. Daddy sat on the porch stoop, a cigarette in hand. Momma sat in the rocker. She didn’t have a smoke, but she looked like she could use one.

“Where have you been, Meghan?” he asked.

I crossed the front lawn to the steps. I didn’t need to answer Daddy’s question, but the one Momma asked next.

“What happened to you?”

She stood and went down the steps, pushing by Daddy as she did so. Her hand was warm on my face as she turned my head, first one way then the other. 

“It was some boys who don’t like me much.”

“They roughed you up pretty good,” she said.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Who were they?”

“Knollwood Herring, Jack Owens and Mickey Darbey.”

“I’ll be having a talk with the school tomorrow about them, but for now, tell us what happened.”

My heart sped up. Sweat formed on my face and in my arm pits and down the center of my still damp bra. “You’re not going to believe me.”

“Try us,” Momma said and went back up the steps. She sat in her chair and they both waited for my story. I told them everything, but when I reached the part about finding SAMM I saw Momma’s eyes brighten up.

“He was made out of stone, wasn’t he?” she asked.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“And he was near the stream?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“What did you name him?”

This stopped me. I didn’t know how to answer her question. I was certain she thought I was lying and was now playing along and when I was done, one of them would take me inside and lay Daddy’s belt to my behind. 

“SAMM,” I said.

Momma smiled. “I called him Martin.”

“What?”

“I called him Martin,” she repeated. “After Martin Luther King.”

My eyes must have become wide and I know my mouth dropped open. “You believe me?”

She laughed. “Oh yes. He saved me one time before, too. Or maybe it was someone like your SAMM.”

“You’re not mad at me?”

“We were worried about you,” Daddy said and snuffed out his cigarette on the concrete step. “Now that we know you are safe and why you were late, there is no need to be mad at you.”

“And there is no reason for me to go to the school and talk to the principal about those three boys.”

“Why is that?” I thought I knew why, but I wanted—needed—to hear it from her.

“They’re not going to find those boys, at least not alive.”

She didn’t need to say anything else. She would go on to tell me the story of how she came across SAMM—Martin, to her—when she was a teen, in the midst of racism. 

“And Meghan, there’s no need to go back to see him. He won’t be there.”

“But I told him I would go back.”

“He won’t be there, Meghan.”

I guess this is the end of my story, but there are a couple of things you need to know. First, they eventually found Knollwood, Jack and Mickey in those woods. They appeared to have been stoned to death, at least that is how the papers put it. Who did it? They don’t know. 

Second, I went back to those woods the next day, on my way home from school. I wasn’t scared, as I had been the day before. I went in at the same spot and I followed the same path, most of which were broken branches and trampled down grass—the path I made when I ran from the bullies. I made my way to the stream. The foot prints were still there from the day before. I crossed the water, not trying to keep from getting wet. There was a wider swath in the foliage. I followed it until it ended abruptly. 

I called for SAMM, but I never found him. I didn’t find Knollwood or Jack or Mickey, either. All I know is SAMM was gone, and Momma had been right. It made me sad that I didn’t get to see him again, but I understood, as I hope you do, now, that each and every decision we make in our lives has a consequence, good or bad. I was different from most kids back then, and because I was different, SAMM found me. I didn’t find him. Those boys chased me into the woods and SAMM was there, but he wasn’t there to save me, but to test me, to see if I would do something for him. By finding his heart—which is really the soul of a person—and giving it back to him, I freed him from his bonds. By saving me from those bullies, he freed me from my bonds. That day changed my life, as I’m sure, my little girl, it will change yours.

Love,

Your mom

__________

Some stories are easy to write. This was one of them. I saw a picture on social media one morning, drawn by a young girl—I believe she had been thirteen when she drew it. It was of a stone creature with vines holding its arms and legs in place. I saved the image and later printed it out. That image became the basis to S.A.M.M. It also hangs on my wall at work, right next to my desk. I don’t know the little girl, who is probably a young woman now, so I won’t post the image with the story. I also won’t post her name.

What I will say is thank you to her for drawing the picture. It made my mind run and this story is the result. 

I hope you enjoyed S.A.M.M. If you did, please like the post, comment and share it to your social media pages and help me get my work out to the world. Thank you.

A.J. 

Common Threads, Part 1

Being able to relate to a story is important for writers and readers alike. We’ll start reading a book in hopes that the story will be intriguing and that it will hold our attention. While we want those things, what we really want is to be able to relate to a character or a situation. If we can connect to the character, then we can connect to the character’s plight. And if we can connect to those two things, then we will care about what is happening to the character and we won’t want to put the book down.

As a storyteller, the goal is to find that connection. I call this the Common Thread. This is when the writer and the reader can relate to the same thing, there is a common thread between them that links them through the story.

The Common Thread starts with the character, building him/her, making him/her either sympathetic enough to love or evil enough to hate. It’s not easy, but with the right amount of back story, emotion and trials it can be done.

When I sit to write a story I do so to create a character I like (or don’t like, depending on the topic). I give that character flawed traits on purpose. I give that person thoughts and feelings that I believe are real and that people can relate to. Relating to the character equals the common thread. I try not to say, ‘he felt sick.’ Instead, I try to tell you how he feels—the cool of the skin from sweating, the aching of joints from a fever, the itchy nose from a cold, the sore ribs and throat and chest from vomiting. If the character has a broken bone, it’s a sharp, instant, to the core feeling that ‘he broke his leg’ just doesn’t quite tell the story.

But feelings, both physical and emotional, aren’t the only things that make a story or what solely connects the character to the reader. The character has to have an obstacle to overcome or to fail trying. There is always an obstacle. Always.

If you’ve read any amount of my work, then you know there are some common themes: Abuse, both physical and emotional, childhood, homelessness, broken people and solitary souls. These are all subjects that most of us, if not all of us can relate to. These are, in many ways, our common threads.

I’d like to touch on this for a minute in relation to Cory’s Way, my novel. If you’ve read it, then you know there are several themes throughout. But I want to touch on just one of them for now: bullying.

When I was a kid—pre age of ten—I had a problem with a couple of bullies. Those two boys were brothers, one of which was a bigger guy and one of which wasn’t so big. Still, they were mean and roamed the Mill Village like they owned the neighborhood. All the other kids, myself included, were terrified of them. They were bad by themselves, but together, they were a nightmare.

My brother and I had to run from them on more than one occasion. Other times…well, I learned how to fight much like Cory did against Alan and Jeffery in Cory’s Way. The kids in the Mill Village were more than happy when the brothers’ moved away. It was a great time, one that was very short lived. You see, once one bully moves on, another one tends to come in and take his/her place. The Mill Village was no different. One of the boys that had been bullied by the brothers decided he was next in line to rule the roost. Though he didn’t use his fist, he used his words, and words can be so much worse when the right ones are spoken to the right people. His abuse was more mental than anything else. We learned how to deal with him, but only after time. Ignore him and he’ll go away. And that’s what happened.

It doesn’t always happen that way.

Fast forward a couple of years to my freshman year in High School. Yeah, you guessed it: another bully. What was I? A bully magnet? Sure, I was small, but by then, I had become tired of folks who thought they could push me around. And one of the class bullies had taunted me throughout the year. I was in an English class where I didn’t fit in and it seemed the teacher didn’t like me. And the bully was one of the IN crowd and so nothing much was done to stop him. At least, nothing much was done until I had had enough.

It was only one shove (by him) and one punch (by me) and several stunned tears (by him), but it was enough to get the message across: I was not going to be bullied by anyone.

Life is not always that simple. Don’t get me wrong, I had to endure a lot from the bully and his friends before I finally got to the point where I had had enough. But a lot of times it doesn’t end with someone standing up for themselves. There is the revenge factor you have to be aware of, especially in today’s world. When I was a kid, if you got in a fight, the dispute was over when the fight was over. There wasn’t anyone going home to get a gun because they were angrier than they were before the fight. You fought. You either won or lost. End of issue.

Being bullied is a terrible feeling. You feel trapped. You feel like at any moment your tormentor could jump from behind a building and beat you down. Sometimes you feel ashamed for not standing up against the bully or bullies because you are afraid to get hurt, or you are afraid they will do something that will be worse than a beat down, but so embarrassing you would feel you can’t show your face in public ever again. Sometimes you feel ashamed to speak up, to tell an adult or a friend because you are worried they might think you are weak, or that they may call you names (which, in its own right is kind of bullying, isn’t it?).

Being bullied is paralyzing. Did you get that? Let me say it again: Being bullied is paralyzing. And once you get paralyzed with that fear, the bully will know and then it tends to escalate.

In Cory’s Way, the main character, ahem, Cory, is bullied by the Burnette Brothers. He constantly looks over his shoulder, constantly hides when he can, and when his mom says she will take care of things, then Cory begs her not to. Yes, this is what bullying does to someone.

One of the Common Threads in Cory’s Way that connects you, the reader, to Cory, the character, is bullying. It’s one of those things that makes Cory’s story so endearing. How does he deal with these boys? Does he stand up to them or does he run away? Does he get beat up or does he do the beating? Does he take care of it himself or tell an adult and let him/her handle things? How would you handle it?

Common Threads are the links that connect readers to characters. Every time you connect to a character think about the common threads between you and that character. What you find may surprise you. Everyone—and, yes, I do mean EVERYONE—has either been bullied or done the bullying or known someone from either extreme.

One more thing: If you are being bullied or if you know someone who is, please, let someone know. You don’t have to face this alone. You don’t have to fear the bully/bullies. You don’t have to be ashamed that someone will find out and they will think less of you. You don’t have to hide it. Bullies rely on you to do nothing. Tell someone. A parent. A guidance counselor. Your best friend. Anyone. You don’t have to face it alone.

Until we meet again, my friends, be kind to one another…