[R.John Xerxes Piche is founder of Love Bunni Press, author of The Diane Files and Uncertain Nervous Systems, watcher of spaghetti westerns and publisher of Blister Packs. Copyright, all rights, all ANYTHING belong only to him.]

I was in the second grade and it had been a rough year. I had looked forward to Easter break since Christmas. The vacation was only a few hours old. I had spent most of the day inside playing figures, battling Stormtroopers with flying Wookies. With a half an hour before dinner would be ready, I went into the damp spring evening to kick at puddles and stab sticks into the mud. Consciously, I tried not to sink my sneakers into the slop, but was unable to resist. I was bored, but enjoying myself.

Phil Stitt lived next door. A few years younger than me and always dressed like an extra kid from the Brady Bunch – you know tight pale shorts and generic blue sneakers. Phil thought that he was an Indian. He truly believed that his humorless father and ill tempered mother discovered him in the rotted out hollow of the dead stump in his backyard. He truly believed that he had been left in a swaddle of blanket by some Squaw, unable to raise her newly born son.

Part of his mythological origin was an invented religious cosmology that deified logs, large sticks, and other broken branches. Each piece of dead wood either protected him or bestowed upon him magical Indian powers. Whenever he was playing outside, whether it be a pick-up kickball game or a disorganized game of guns, he always hugged to his chest some awkward chunk of timber.

That night he came staggering down his driveway, his white shorts a size too small, pinched his pale legs and made his legs resemble fat little bockwurst. His arms held up a thick branch. He cradled it against his tight fitted, faded yellow day camp hand-me-down t-shirt. He was singing an imaginary Indian War Chant imploring the Bark Gods to protect his troop movements and bless his evening war path. When he saw me across our two yards, he stopped in mid-step.

I had been standing holding a pointy stick of my own, punched into the mud next to a puddle pooled in a sunken slab of sidewalk. I called out to him, raising my hand so he would see me.

He let out a low pitched EEK! And let the branch roll from his arms as his fingers pitched it up. It smacked the lawn with a splashing thump. He pivoted on his heel, then bolted up the driveway. Seconds later, he returned with a new lump of wood, this one water-logged and squirming with slugs. He lifted it above his head as he shouted out some nonsensical intruder alert in his made-up Indian vernacular, then as if casting off a heavy barbell he pushed the log to the ground. Then he squatted down to pick up some of the gravel on his broken asphalt drive way, aimed and lobbed it at me.

With two front lawns and at least one huge spring-budding tree between us, I was in little peril. While the rocks fell in a wide mud-slapping radius around me, I took to returning the volleys. Phil was shouting his war cry as he weaved back and forth, ducking and dodging rocks that landed feet in front of him.

Out of the bed of Day Lilies my mom had just planted, I found a rock almost the size of my own fist. Without particular force and with absolutely no aim, I send this rock flying in a high pitched arc. Caught in the slow motion thrall, Phil and I, both, watched the awful, branch shattering trajectory of this unstoppable rock. It peaked flawlessly and came straight down on Phil Stitt’ nose, hitting his face with a grotesque flesh-breaking whack.

Shocked by the unexpected direct hit, I bolted into my house to hide. I could hear behind me, Phil’s panic turn into a death wail of tears and hyperventilation.

My mother was in the kitchen stirring a big vat of boiling spaghetti. The kitchen windows were sweating steam under the lace doily curtains. She looked up as I ran past, anything moving that fast always signaled trouble. Just as my mom called after me, the phone BRAAAAANG’d, angrily.

Sitting on the landing halfway between floors, I could hear Phil’s mom screaming obscenities, both through the walls of our home from next door and through the ear-muffled receiver pressed to my mom’s ear.

Seconds later my mom called me down to hear my side of the story. While she understood it was probably an accident, she was not at all happy that we were throwing rocks at each other in the first place. “How is that fun,” she wondered. She continuously failed to understand that it was always more fun when we were filthy dirty and in the middle of trying to kill one another. She wanted me to march right over the Phil’s house and apologize for what I had done.

After some whiney indignation, I stepped over the pricker bushes between our yards and stood on the concrete slab of the Stitt’s front porch. I knocked softly. The door swung open and Phil stood there behind the screen door. His nostrils caked with blood boogers, his chin smeared by rough towel swipes, his faded yellow shirt tie-dyed in dark gore, and his white cloth shorts splattered with errant drips. His mother leaned over him, her claw digging into his shoulder.

“DO YOU SEE…” she growled through clenched teeth and jerked Phil back and forth, so his hands bounced against the screen door.

As she continued, she yanked Phil back and forth as if he were a rag doll propused to punctuate her seething anger, “LOOK! Look at what you’ve done! Are you fucking proud of yourself, you little shit?”

I looked down at my sneakers. Phil’s mom screeched, “Look at him! Look at what you did!!” She waved the blood sopped bath towel, “This towel is RUINED because of YOU! Are you going to pay for it, you worthless little bully!?!”


“Sorry? You think a sorry is going to make one bit of difference?! Goddamn motherfucker!” her face went purple from the lack of oxygen.

“It was an accident,” I pleaded.

“SHUT UP!” She spit as she flung Phil behind her almost sending him to the floor.

“Get off of my property!”

The door slammed in my face.

I turned and went home.

~ by yearzerowriters on March 11, 2010.

15 Responses to “STONE THROW”

  1. “Part of his mythological origin was an invented religious cosmology that deified logs, large sticks, and other broken branches” – that’s the kind of line that makes me very jealous of the writer.

    I love pieces like this that gently subvert the characters’ perceptions – the passive dignity of the nartrator and the ridiculousness of the adults that makes us realise everty word they say is junk. That’s a great way to sum up being that age.

  2. Gods, I loved this so much. I think y’all can see why I say that John taught me so much about writing. It’s funny, honest, evocative and it’s flawless. A masterclass!

  3. Having once sent my best friend to the hospital eye ward for three days, when I dislodged his retina with a tennis ball, I can only vouch for the veracity of this fine piece. I can identify so well with the narrator.

    Extremely well done!

    • The eye healed completely, in case anyone wonders.

    • That’s reminded me that when I was seven I threw a tennis racket at my best friend that hit him in the forehead and he needed stitches – I wonder what it is about throwing things that’s SO compulsive?

  4. Beats me. It was not the same guy I hit between the eyes with a pebble, but I did hit someone. Had it been a bullet, I’d have done lotsa time for it.

    This is a sidetrack from admiring the writing, innit 😛 ?

  5. actually, I think it’s a testament to the piece that it can evoke such memories — it’s so hard to write childhood memories with any real validity, and John has done just that!

  6. But the thing that still stings me about the retina is that I went to ask the guy’s mother, “is there anything I can do?” and she said, “I believe you’ve done quite enough.” I was really, really hoping to find a way to help.

  7. When I was a kid, my neighbor and I were re-enacting the dance sequences from dirty dancing. When she flipped me, I ended up flying down a flight of marble stairs and landing on my face. I broke my nose.

  8. I believe this is how Mike Watt & D.Boon first met and went on to form The Minutemen. The rest as they say is history.

    I particularly liked how he heard the boy’s mother screaming both through the walls and the phone. Nice touch.

    marc nash

  9. I think that kids are only having fun when someone might die.

    this is based on a true story. the mom in question and I used to have screaming swear fights. Really. I learned all the best swears from her.

    Thank you for the kind comments. I am glad the story brought back other memories.

  10. That mother was a bit drastic, wasn’t she? This reads like a true story. The description of the mother’s rage as she pulled Phil back and forth, his stained shirt, the spaghetti being cooked – all sum up a very ‘real’ and descriptive piece.


  11. Doesn’t this just conjure up something from everyone’s childhood? I love having the feeling that I’ve been there, and this story accomplishes just that – nothing is ever what it seems and where else but in childhood do we feel the assault of it?

    I think I knew the narrator’s neighbors, by the way. They had a son who shot me in the neck with a pellet gun when I was about 9. On accident, of course. I think.

    Great story.


  12. “Get off my property.” God, that sounds so familiar.

  13. Finally got a chance to read this. Very weird day, but I won’t get into that.

    Leave it to adults to overreact.

    When I was a kid, we used to have mock wars, one gang of kids against another. We used rocks, pine cone (they hurt when launched from a wrist rocket) and bb guns. The battle’s came to a stop when one kid took a bb under the corner of his eye.

    It did go a little too far. But the kid who shot him (quite by accident) was so vilified by the neighborhood parents that he was marred for years by the incident.

    Apart from that, I enjoyed your characterization of Phil.

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