Another's Story

A few weeks ago I gathered up a batch of negatives that I had brought home when we cleaned out my father's house. I took them over to Southeastern Camera on Atlantic Avenue and had Angela scan them for me and put them on a disk.  I've spent hours looking at them.

Among the photos was this one of my brother and some neighborhood friends. First of all I was struck by the fact that all the boys had guns, pointing them at each other, wielding them so carelessly. So I asked my brother (who doesn't seem to have a gun) to write the story of this picture. It speaks volumes.

Here's his story:

Shoot 'Em Up

“Cheater!"

The word made him stop and turn; a dangerous look came across his face.

“What did you call me?”

“I shot you and you didn't fall.”

“What did you call me?”

“You’re supposed to fall when you get shot."

By now he was an arm’s length away.  His right hand drew back behind his right ear and paused for a much longer time than was expected, calculating the exact target that would inflict the maximum damage.

A normal response would have been to run.  The older, larger boy was a well-known bully who was quick to violence against weaker boys.  At least duck, or try to deflect the impending blow.

The collision of bone and flesh landed between the right eye and the temple causing the head and neck to jerk violently back and right, and the body to crumple to the ground.

“You missed me, you little shit."

The fallout was immediate and ruthless:  

“Why did you do that, Tommy?”

“You’re a bully."

“If you want to pick on someone, pick on someone your own size."

Then came the parents: parental outrage, parental comfort, parental shame.

The victim became hero and the victor solidified his reign as pariah.

A momentary, light affliction for an eternal weight of glory.

Thanks, Bro!