I hate mission statements....

But what blog launch would be complete without one?

Many of you may not know this, but I like to write.  It's something I've been doing at my leisure for around ten years now.  In that time I have accumulated a modest backlog of stories--some decent, many of them garbage.  I intend to post the decent ones on this blog every other week or so for friends and family (hopefully even some strangers) to read.

For some time I had been toying with the idea of publishing my work online.  It was a goal that always seemed so distant, and yet here I am, staring at my mission statement, a little excited, a little nervous, and even a little scared. Maybe fear is why it took so long to create this blog in the first place, despite other excuses. And still, on the eve of the 'publish' button, I feel slightly unnerved.  But what's the point of all this writing, of any expression really, if no one gets to see it?

I couldn't have done this ten years ago.  Oh, I mean I could have posted a blog showcasing some things I had written, but I wouldn't have been able to take advantage of the feedback.  My insecurities were far too strong back then.  Constructive criticism would have been dismissed as off-base or just plain stupid, and I would have continued to delude myself into believing that my writing ability was ready-made and that there was no room for improvement.

Thankfully the passing years have allowed me to divorce myself from many of the things I've written, to see my stories through a near-fresh perspective and to admit to myself that... I have written some crap. And although I couldn't see it at the time, someone else definitely would have.  The criticism I so tried to avoid could have served as a tool to improve my ability had I only been mature enough to take it.  So much wasted time....

Don't get me wrong, I still write some crap, but I also churn out some entertaining pieces as well. While my skill may be a little sharper than it was ten years ago, I know I'm still far from perfect. So please, read and comment.  I only ask that you let me know when something can be improved.  I may listen to you, I may not, but either way I will take your comments to heart, and I will be ever grateful.

*A special thanks to Tim Edward who drew the Holy Crow art specifically for this blog.  You can find him on Facebook if anyone is interested in buying one of his amazing drawings or prints.  He has also been known to do custom work from time to time.  I would also like to thank everyone who has edited some of my work before now.  You've already been a big help.

Red Stones

         Ten minutes until the bell rang—ten more nerve-racking minutes.  From the other side of the court Jonas saw the jocks form a huddle.  He couldn't be sure of what they were planning—their imaginations cruel and inventive—but he knew that it meant death for someone.  He hoped it wouldn't be him this time.
Jonas looked around the gym to see if any of his teammates might make for a competing target.  All but three of his classmates had already been struck by dodgeballs.  They shouted from the sideline, commanding their remaining teammates to catch a ball so they could be tagged back into the game. Jonas knew they weren't counting on him for any feats of athleticism, but there was always the hope that he might get lucky and impress them.  
He cataloged the survivors: Jeff Madison—a rare specimen—a student who was blessed with both intelligence and coordination. Then there was Nick Linden, who wasn't the most athletic person in the gymnasium, but he had enough coordination to pull off a couple cheap shots.  Plus he was funny so the jocks usually cut him slack.
He wondered if he would prefer humor or physical ability.  Either would make his life easier, but he thought that agility might be better.  It would lend him opportunities to join numerous sports teams, which would keep him out of the house, away from his dad.  And then there was also the fact that jocks got laid, at least that was what he gathered from rumors whispered in the school’s hallways.  
The third player, Matt Ferial, was the only other candidate for a bludgeoning with rubber balls.  He sat on a bleacher pulled out from the wall, silently refusing to participate in an unconvincing attempt to appear rebellious.  Matt wasn’t athletic or smart.  The only thing he excelled at was being a nuisance—interrupting class with quips that were usually stupid or obvious.  He did have a few classroom hits though, and for some reason the other students found a disruptive student to be more appealing than an enthusiastic one.  Still, Matt was hardly beyond a good pummeling if the right combination of personalities comprised the huddle.  Jonas moved away from him to avoid becoming collateral damage.
Six minutes left.  The huddle broke and five of the six opposing teammates headed toward the center line, converging directly across from Matt.  Jonas let out a sigh, thankful to be spared from public humiliation for another day.  For a moment he felt pity.  Matt was grating, but he knew that it was only the result of being an outsider, like Jonas was.  They were alike in that they both wanted the acceptance of their peers, and neither got it, but whereas Jonas’s response to his class’s rejection was to withdraw from it, Matt’s response to buck against it.  As annoying as Matt was, he had to admire his unwillingness to give up.
The boys raised their arms over their heads, balls in hand, and waited as the tight-end on the varsity football team, counted to three.  Jonas’s insides began to tighten as they neared release, and during the nanosecond between two and three he caught sight of a red object floating his way, high from the opposite end of the gym.  
It was a good ploy, he thought, trying for a second bird while everyone was focused on the first.  But the shooter was too far away for his throw to have any real power.  The ball lobbed toward him with a long, slow arc.  Jonas had ample time to get out of the way, but he was reluctant to step aside. 
He opened his arms.  Diagonal to him the tight end yelled “three” and on his mark the jocks all turned toward Jonas and released a flurry of red hail.  Three balls made contact with him—one in the groin and another in the chest.  The third ball struck him square in the face.  The force of the impact was so great that it broke his glasses over the bridge of his nose.  Jonas staggered sideways and then fell to his knees in pain. The entire gym erupted in laughter.  The ball that had struck him in the chest slowly rolled back to the opposing team.  The tight end picked it up and launched it again hitting him in the shoulder.  Jonas jerked back as if he’d been shot.
Laughter echoed from every corner of the cavernous gym.  Jonas stayed kneeling, paralyzed by pain and embarrassment.  
The gym teacher put his fist in front of his mouth, trying to hide his own chuckling.  “Alright, Jonas, move out of the way,” he instructed.
Jonas looked at the gym teacher who doubled as the football coach, and at that moment there appeared to be two of him, appropriately.  He rubbed his stinging face and when he pulled his hand back he found blood on his fingertips.  The side of his nose had been cut by the jagged plastic from the broken glasses.  He struggled to stop himself from crying, both from pain and hisfear of blood.  He bottled it up, refusing to let them think that they had hurt him.    
The teacher noticed the blood too.  “Oh, Christ,” he said to himself.  He walked up to Jonas and gripped his chin, pulling his face from side to side.  “You’ll be alright,” he declared.  “Ferial, help your buddy to the nurse’s office!”
Jonas could tell by the way Matt rolled his eyes that he wasn’t happy to be associated with him, but there wasn’t much he could do.  The athletes all revered the coach as a former football god, and Matt knew it was best not to challenge him should he invoke their ire.  He took Jonas by the arm and led him toward the double doors at the rear of the gym.
“Don’t forget to hold hands, butt buddies!” someone yelled after them.    
The surge of laughter muffled as the door to the gymnasium closed.  Beyond the eyes of the teacher, Matt let go of Jonas, who had begun breathing spastically.  
“Thanks for dragging me down with you, queer,” he said.  “You know where it is.”  Matt pointed down the hall in the direction of the nurse’s office.
Jonas made his way down the hall, slightly hunched over.  Drops of blood trailed after him like breadcrumbs.  His former sympathy for Ferial had now been completely reshaped into hatred.  He remembered the time and sped up, hoping to god he could make it to the nurse before the bell rang and flooded the hall with more people to stand witness to his humiliation.
What a pathetic sight he must look to the nurse, he thought, bloody and gasping for breath.  She ran a cotton ball soaked with isopropyl over his cut.  The exposed nerves stung as the alcohol seeped into the small gash.  His eyes watered.
“Come on now, you’re not going to cry on me, are you?”  The nurse said coldly.  “You’re a big boy, Jonas, you shouldn’t be crying over a little cut.”  
Jonas looked at her wearily.  He was fighting back the urge to tell her to go to hell, but even as easy a target as she would be, he was still too meek to direct his anger at her.
She sighed as she thoughtlessly stuck a Band Aide over the cut.  As Jonas headed to the door she asked him if he wanted her to call his parents on his behalf.
He slammed the door behind him.
By the time he got to the locker room it was empty, much to his relief.  He looked at his face in the mirror.  The area around his nose was red and puffy.  The nurse had put the Band-Aid on carelessly, laying the adhesive over the cut instead of the gauze.  Her sloppiness would only serve to reopen the wound when he tore it off later.
Jonas sat on the wooden bench between an aisle of lockers.  He struggled with his padlock—his sight thoroughly handicapped without his glasses—but after three tries he finally removed the lock.  He stuck his fingers through the metal latticed door and pulled it open.  Jonas picked up the pile of clothing crumpled at the bottom of the locker.  It was soaking wet.  
Why did they hate him so much?  He wondered.  It wasn’t enough to hurt and humiliate him in class, but they had to pour water on his clothes too?  Was he their tyrant in a past life?  What did he do to them to deserve their distilled contempt?
He pawed each article of clothing to see if anything could be salvaged when suddenly he caught a whiff of acid.  Jonas brought the clothes up to his face and sniffed.  They hadn’t poured water through the mesh locker door, someone had urinated through it.  He gave the wad of clothing a hard squeeze and then let it fall to the floor.  Jonas looked out the high window into the gray mid-afternoon sky and began to whimper.  They had beaten him after all, he thought, but at least none of them were there to realize it.      

*A special thanks to Pete Laffin who edited this piece in advance.