Short Story #1
This is Not a Game
Short Story #1, Two Page Draft
Shortly before my 5th-grade summer vacation, a guest speaker was invited into my classroom; they called him an Indian, and he called himself a Native American. He taught my class about his culture, and my friend Natalie and I sat cross-legged, captivated by his ancient wisdom. He taught us how bones transformed into tools, plants held medicinal secrets, and rituals connected generations in timeless dance. Enamored by the unfamiliarity of it all, we soon spent our summer days assuming the role of Native Americans, immersing ourselves in uneducated, childlike versions of tradition and ritual.
One late afternoon, as dusk began to dull the hot summer sky, Natalie and I sat to discuss the rules of our pretend tribe. We had spent the day foraging blueberries from the bushes in her backyard and poorly attempting to weave baskets with long blades of grass. “I think we need to create a ritual, a kind of expressive dance like the Native American man described to us,” Natalie proposed, her mouth stained purple from the berries.
“But only for special occasions!” I agreed. Happy to have persuaded me, Natalie smiled with the power of influence. I did not mind letting her feel important, as I knew it was another of her usual attempts to impress me, and I appreciated the flattery.
My mother, a strict and timely woman, would arrive to pick me up within the hour, but we were anxious to continue playing and ignored the impending deadline.
As we sat, captivated by the excitement of our new game, the neighbor boy, Chase, prowled down the road, his eyes gleaming with a malevolent curiosity toward our peaceful democracy. He was a boy the two of us fought to avoid, as he was brash and insolent to the people around him. Yet, Natalie and I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of compassion for Chase, considering the turbulent divorce his parents were going through. However, despite our attempts to understand his behavior, we both agreed that it remained inexcusable.
Stepping between us, he demanded to know what we were discussing, “what are you two little girls whispering about?” he sneered as if knowing was his self-appointed right. Natalie, a friendly but socially foolish girl, began to blunder on in excitement about our newly discovered world, “We’re reenacting the lives of Native Americans! We’re going to make our own tools and build a teepee just like they did!”
I sat quietly, observing Chase. He was a fat boy, his gut protruded from underneath his dirtied shirt, a glutton in life and in spirit. Natalie finally silenced, and Chase grinned with a devious conviction, declaring through his slit of a mouth: “I’m joining your tribe.” Out of reluctant obligation, Natalie and I silently agreed. Chase did not need to hear our approval, and, forming a small triangle, he led us to his grandmother’s home down the road to play.
His backyard, shaped like a hyoid bone, had a small brook running along the entirety of its bend. A worn-out trailer home occupied the left side of the field, contrasting with the ominous presence of a carefully maintained concrete building on the right. “See that garage over there?” Chase pointed toward the concrete structure. “That’s where my family hangs and skins deer. Pretty badass, huh?” Natalie grinned in agreement, clearly in blissful awe of this place. I could tell she imagined a summer filled with Native American adventures here, with the grassy field adorned by vibrant wildflowers and the gentle murmur of the brook setting the stage. Yet, something about the space remained unsettling as the garage began to cast a haunting shadow over the land.
Short Story, Step Two
Shortly before my 5th-grade summer vacation, a guest speaker was invited into my classroom; they called him an Indian, and he called himself a Native American. He taught my class about his culture, and my friend Natalie and I sat cross-legged, captivated by his ancient wisdom. He taught us how bones transformed into tools, plants held medicinal secrets, and rituals connected generations in timeless dance. Enamored by the unfamiliarity of it all, we soon spent our summer days assuming the role of Native Americans, immersing ourselves in uneducated, childlike versions of tradition and ritual.
One late afternoon, as dusk began to dull the hot summer sky, Natalie and I sat to discuss the rules of our pretend tribe. We had spent the day foraging blueberries from the bushes in her backyard and poorly attempting to weave baskets with long blades of grass. “I think we need to create a ritual, a kind of expressive dance like the Native American man described to us,” Natalie proposed, her mouth stained purple from the berries.
“But only for special occasions!” I agreed. Happy to have persuaded me, Natalie smiled with the power of influence. I did not mind letting her feel important, as I knew it was another of her usual attempts to impress me, and I appreciated the flattery.
My mother, a strict and timely woman, would arrive to pick me up within the hour, but we were anxious to continue playing and ignored the impending deadline.
As we sat, captivated by the excitement of our new game, the neighbor boy, Chase, prowled down the road, his eyes gleaming with a malevolent curiosity toward our peaceful democracy. He was a boy the two of us fought to avoid, as he was brash and insolent to the people around him. Yet, Natalie and I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of compassion for Chase, considering the turbulent divorce his parents were going through. However, despite our attempts to understand his behavior, we both agreed that it remained inexcusable.
He approached and stepped between us, demanding to know what we were discussing. “What are you two little girls whispering about?” he sneered as if knowing was his self-appointed right. Natalie, a friendly but socially foolish girl, began to blunder on in excitement about our newly discovered world, “We’re reenacting the lives of Native Americans! We’re going to make our own tools and build a teepee just like they did!”
I sat quietly, observing Chase. He was a fat boy, his gut protruded from underneath his dirtied shirt, a glutton in life and in spirit. Natalie finally silenced, and Chase grinned with a devious conviction, declaring through his slit of a mouth: “I’m joining your tribe.” Out of reluctant obligation, Natalie and I silently agreed. Chase did not need to hear our approval, and, forming a small triangle, he led us to his grandmother’s home down the road to play.
The land, shaped like a hyoid bone, had a small brook running along the entirety of its bend. A dilapidated trailer home occupied the left side of the field, contrasting with the ominous presence of a carefully maintained concrete building on the right. “See that garage over there?” Chase pointed toward the concrete structure. “That’s where my family hangs and skins deer. Pretty badass, huh?” Natalie grinned in agreement, clearly in blissful awe of this place. I could tell she imagined a summer filled with Native American adventures here, with the grassy field adorned by vibrant wildflowers and the gentle murmur of the brook setting the stage. Yet, something about the space felt unsettling as the garage began to cast a haunting shadow over the land.
Eagerly, our trio immersed ourselves in the task of gathering nearby sticks and arranging them meticulously to form a small teepee, its skeletal frame reaching toward the sky. With each stick we added, the shape took form, resembling the sacred symbol of fire. It was as if an unspoken pact had been forged, binding us to the elemental forces at play. We could feel the presence of the fire, an intangible entity that whispered ancient secrets to our souls. Its flickering light called to us, casting dancing shadows that stirred a primal longing within. We yearned to please the fire, to surrender ourselves to its rhythmic embrace.
In ritual, we began to beat on our mouths and skip, forming a tight circle around the sticks, mocking the culture we tried so hard to embody. Chase’s voice rose above ours, commanding the unified howling. He mistook volume for authority and, unbeknownst to us, arrogated himself as the chief, excitedly exerting dominance over our young and fragile bodies.
As the sun began to kiss the ground, Chase broke the ritual, “Indians fought a lot; they had arrows and spears, you know,” he paused, relishing in the sound of his own intellect. “We just danced. That means that now… we fight.”
Despite the transparency of his arrogance, our innocent minds were thrilled at the temptation of mimicking such adult-like activity. We agreed, thinking of the man at our school who told us of the battles his people had fought and the ones they continue to fight, too young to understand that we were the attackers.
Stirred, Chase disappeared behind the grim concrete bastion, “I have to get something… then we can start,” he yelled back.
The yard, which had just echoed with our mockery, was silent. Natalie began picking at a scab on her arm. I wanted to scold her for the nasty habit but failed to find my voice.
As we waited for Chase, I noticed a monotone buzzing from nearby flies, or at least, thats’s what I assumed it was. A slow beating, like a ritual drum, began overtaking my ears. Natalie and I gorged ourselves in nervous anticipation, unsure of what to expect but nonetheless restless for his game to begin.
As Chase emerged and crept back toward us, a sharp flash of light, metal catching the sun, stung my eyes. He held something glistening in his right hand. The grin on his face made me uneasy. Turning to Natalie, a silent recognition passed: this was not a game.
He charged at us from across the field, wielding the sharp, foreign object like he were an experienced savage and we wild pigs. Jelly legs, ones that no longer felt like our own, began to propel our bodies forward. Like birds migrating, Natalie and I stayed together but apart, fleeting from the imminent danger of Chase’s hunting knife.
The pounding in my ears seeped into my forehead and down the bridge of my nose; it trembled through my flailing arms, debilitating my thoughts, forcing a reliance on pure adrenaline. Tripping over myself, I came to the realization that our small bodies were no match for his raging prepubescence. His land, which at first glance looked so prosperous, began to reveal its horrid nature. The once soft evening breeze now exhaled its scorching breath down my back, and the tall grass jeered, grabbing at my legs.
A primal scream tore out into the air, shattering the fake serenity with raw terror, but the heat quickly muffled its ringing; it sounded like my voice. Intentionally, this time, I allowed the fear to escape from my throat, a high-pitched wailing which, again, vibrated into nothingness. Across the field, Natalie did the same, but we were both acutely aware that only Chase could hear us; her house was a half mile away, and there was no one else around. We looked at each other across the field and, in a fleeting moment of eye contact, begged for help we knew neither could provide.
Chase’s legs pounded on the ground, propelled by pure excitement and fueled by a lust for more terror. His stocky fingers wrapped tighter around the Bowie. Had I stopped to take in the moment, I imagine he would have been foaming at the mouth, laughing like a coyote warning its prey.
I thought of Golding’s parable, remembered Ralph’s final stroke of luck before imminent death. His liberation from mass destruction, from vanished innocence. Unlike Ralph, there was no one coming to help us. My mother was likely still 20 minutes away.
My asthma, an annoyance of a condition that I too often ignored, began to work itself into my nose, then down my esophagus, causing my lungs and body to sputter like a defective car. I stopped, gasping for breath, and the long grass wrapped around my legs, ensnaring me in its grip and weaving me into place. I was a deer immobilized by the piercing glare of headlights; fear rendered me motionless.
I reproached my own foolishness, resenting my tendency to freeze in moments of fear, a facet of myself that I despised…that I despise. Despite this self-awareness, I remained firmly rooted in place. The fat boy screamed as he sprinted toward me. I smiled, knowing Natalie had been allowed to get away. I begged the spirits that she would be smart enough to get help. She was not.
Chase grabbed me by only an arm, yet I could not break free with the weight of my entire body. The knife glinted in his hands with a malevolent luster; its cruel edges smeared with dried deer blood that clung like a haunting memory. The sickly color twisted my stomach into knots, and I couldn’t help but wince at the macabre display of power. Chase grinned at his potential, leering over me, knife in hand.
“I’m just playing,” he lied.
Reflection:
After the workshop, I have come to the conclusion that Chase’s character needs to be developed a bit more. One of the most common pieces of feedback I received had to do with wanting to know more about Chase’s background. I also got a handful of suggestions on ways to make the story creepier, although it seems like many students didn’t want it to be creepier. I think that, if anything, I would add a touch more foreshadowing at the beginning of the story. Overall, I feel as though I got a lot of good feedback and helpful comments from the class.
