Boys Games

The day was bright and hot, but in the woods it was cool and comfortable, and two boys played there.

In the shadowy woods, a dark haired boy stood motionless as he looked down at a shaft of an arrow. Its fake colorful feathers rippled slightly in a wind and made it look festive.

Beside the boy’s foot was his bow, which only moments before had held the arrow with its brightly colored feathers.

The boy’s left hand hung by his side, his fingers curled and uncurled, seeking to wrap around something. Perhaps they wanted the bow back.

The bow lay partially in an ant bed, and angrily disturbed ants marched single file along its string, using it as a bridge from their destroyed nest to the foot of the intruder who had destroyed it.

A few of them crawled the other way, away from the foot, away from the bow, away from their ruined nest. Their antenna wiggled frantically, giving off chemical signals of retreat.

The retreating ants crawled over an open book.

Their small black bodies were well hidden as they marched across the printed words, but they stood out strongly against the brightly colored illustration on the second page.

The art was printed in shades of yellow and red, the same bright colors as the feathers on the arrow shaft.

It showed two boys under a tree. One boy stood with his back to the tree. He had an apple on his head and a smile on his face.

The second boy in the picture stood away from the tree, facing the first boy. He was not smiling, but looked serious and in thought. He had an arrow notched in a bow and pointed at the first boy.

The wind blew a bit harder and caught the pages of the open book. It flipped them rapidly and tossed the disgruntled ants farther away.

The same wind wrapped around a bit of spittle from the dark haired boys open mouth and plucked it away. Unanchored the drop fell down, past the feathers, past the arrow, and landed soft and silent on the cheek of a little blond haired boy.

The little one didn’t notice. He laid as still as ever, his right arm up and under his head like a pillow. His left arm lay stretched away from his body, palm up towards the sky, fingers curled towards the palm.

Neither arm moved to wipe the drop of drool off of his face.

Even the corners of his lips curved slightly upwards. His mouth held the tiniest tender smile. IT was the innocent smile usually reserved for infants and toddling children, or for the comely face of the Mona Lisa.

He gazed up into the branches of the tree the boys were under. One of his blue eyes watched the patterns of light and shadow made by the leaves of the tree as the wind passed through them.

Here the wind forged shadow art in the form of a laughing face. There it carved out a boot. And the boy watched with his blue eye and his gentle smile and the yellow and red feathers on the shaft of the arrow still danced in the wind that blew through the cool comfortable woods on the bright hot day.

Those red and yellow feathers, jaunty and playful, blocked the view that would have been seen from the blond boys second blue eye. They might have apologized for this and moved out of the way, but being stuck to the arrow, and the arrow stuck in his eye, they had little ability to do anything but dance in the wind.

As with the drool from the mouth of the dark haired boy, the blond one seemed not to mind that the wind blown feathers were blocking the view of one of his eyes. Neither did he seem to mind that an arrow had replaced one of his eyes.

Still wearing his Mona Lisa smile, he seemed content to lie like he was forever, watching the wind play in the forest canopy.

When the wind blew very hard a pair of the trees branches parted and one shaft of the bright hot sun was able to reach down. It touched the top of the blond boys head, but did not shine in his face.

Just above his head the natural spotlight touched a splash of red.

It was an apple, a beautiful red apple that could have been the perfect fruit if it were not for the ants crawling on it. Ants, which had been scatted from their bed by the bow, had found it and had set upon it.

They worked hard on carving it into ant sized bits and carrying it away, back down into the tunnels below the remains of their destroyed bed.

One ant reached the very tip of the apples stem and paused for a moment before going back down.

He thanked the god of ants and insects for the bounty they had received, and for the dangerous games boys play.

Thanks for your participation...

I’d like to thank everyone for sharing their opinions with me on my last post.

You’re opinions were varied, as I expected them to be, from those who agreed with me, those who disagreed with me and those who REALLY disagreed with me (they didn’t leave a url so I couldn’t link back to their place.)

The most interesting comment, though, was from Steven Sweet who said in part, “I think it's even scarier that the dad let his son be taken away.”

I urge everyone to read the post in question, and to read the comments left on it. You can still leave your own. I like reading everyone’s points of view.


To those who come here to read my fictions, I promise I'll have another one up eventually.

Teen horror writer committed him to a psychiatric ward

Minnesota high school student David Riehm bristled at his creative writing
teacher's stinging comments at the bottom of his assignment.

"David, I am offended by this piece. If this needs to be your subject matter,
you're going to have to find another teacher," Ann Mershon's

The 17-year-old's satirical fable concerned a
boy who awoke from a wet dream, slipped rear-end first onto a toy cone, and then
had his head crushed "in a misty red explosion" under the tires of a school bus.

"I'm actually a little concerned about your obsessive focus on sex and potty
language. Make a change — today!" Mershon warned.

Read the whole article HERE.

As a writer, the attitude of this teacher disturbs me. She's trying to tell him what he is and is not allowed to write. I don't like the idea of a teacher trying to smother a young persons creativity, morbid though it may be.

I remember the first real fiction piece I wrote in 6th grade involved a radioactive wolf that ate babies. My teacher saw the creative effort and encouraged at, he didn't chide me for being a bit morbid.

As for the story he wrote in retaliation, I would much rather see our young and angry teenagers writing stories in retaliation rather than coming into the schools with guns shooting up the place.

Again, in my own personal life I've often written short fictions and/or poems where I murder, maim and mutilate whoever I'm angry with. I'm 24 years old currently, and I've managed to not physically hurt anyone yet.

I would enjoy hearing your opinions of the article, as well as the original essay which you can see (along with the teachers notations) HERE with links to others at the bottom of the page to other essays if you follow the links at the bottom of the page, and the teachers statement HERE.

Personally I think the teacher should use her job.

Mystickal Incense & More

My current renter is Stephanie of the Mystickal Incense & More blog.

Why should you vist her site?

1. She gave blood and didn’t even get a t-shirt. (When I gave blood all I got was a bandaid....her calander is better swag, even if its not a t-shirt)

2. Contests! She apprantly has them alot. The current one is a maze, in which prizes are hidden. Can you find one?

3. I caught me a gazoo there!

4. She showed a little sympathy for a retail clerk being shouted at. (While mostly she just wanted to get through the checkout line herself, as a retail clerk I tip my hat to those out there who take even a little pitty on us.)


New fiction will be posted whenever I think of anything good to write. In the meantime, feel free to read and comment on any of my past fictions.