I'm in a creative writing workshop here, not for credit. 12 law students writing stuff. Yes, it's exactly like that makes it sound. Anyway, I wrote a 2-page short story this week that got a better response than I expected it too. I liked my idea; I'm not sure I'm really all that happy with my execution. I didn't spend enough time on it. Nothing else is coming to mind to post today, so that's what you get. Short stories really aren't my thing -- as in, I don't really ever feel motivated to write them. But as a change of pace, it's not a bad form to play with I guess.

Henry

Henry packed his backpack for school. His algebra homework, his history textbook, the pamphlet about gonorrhea he was supposed to read for health class, the peanut butter and jelly sandwich his mom left in the fridge for him, his baseball glove, and his gun. He shut the door quietly behind him. His parents were still sleeping. Henry had to get to school early for baseball practice. He stuck with baseball, even though he wasn’t a starter. He liked being on a team. He liked the camaraderie. He liked the bus rides to the away games. He liked the coach. He liked everyone but Scott, the catcher.

“Morning, Henry,” said the coach.

“Morning, Coach,” said Henry.

“How’s your grandpa?”

“Feeling better.”

“Good. Get out there in the outfield and throw the ball around.”

Henry grabbed his glove from his backpack and jogged across the diamond. Suddenly he felt a sharp pain in his shoulder and fell to the ground. A baseball rolled away alongside him. He saw Scott twenty yards behind him, laughing.

“An accident, I swear!”

Sure. Like the time he ran head-first into Henry’s chest and sent him flying into the dugout fence. Or the time he tripped him as he turned the corner around third base. Or the time he pulled down his uniform pants in the middle of practice.

“He’s our best player,” the coach said.

“But he’s mean to me.”

“He’s just playing. Ignore him. He’ll stop.”

“That’s what you always say.”

“Well, he’s the reason we win games. So there’s nothing I can do.”

Practice ended and Henry went to class. “I think Henry has gonorrhea,” Scott told the health teacher, in front of the whole class. Scott was in all of Henry’s classes too.

“If not for Scott,” Henry told his best friend Doug on the way to history, “school would be perfect.”

“No it wouldn’t,” Doug said. We’d still have homework, and math tests, and that stupid movie about gonorrhea. And someone else would pick on you instead. He’s not that bad.”

“He makes me want to cry.”

“Everything makes you want to cry. You want to go get pizza after school?”

“You always want pizza.”

“So? I like pizza.”

History class was boring as usual. On the way out, Henry felt a tap on his shoulder. “Why are you such a loser?”

It was Scott.

“Stop bothering me,” Henry said.

“Why? I like bothering you. You’re easy.”

Scott pushed Henry to the ground. “Your mom has gonorrhea.”

“Will you stop with the gonorrhea already?” Henry asked. Scott ignored him and continued down the hall, laughing.

“You look like you’re going to cry,” Doug said, as he helped Henry off the ground.

“I’m not crying.”

“You look like you are.”

“I’m not crying.”

“Does your mom really have gonorrhea?”

“No.”

“Are you hungry?”

“No.”

“Can I copy your math homework?”

“Yeah.”

Doug copied Henry’s math homework during class while the math teacher wrote equations on the overhead projector. Last period always seemed to take forever. After the bell rang, Henry packed up his stuff and tried to rush out of the room.

“Thought you’d beat me out of class?” It was Scott.

“What?”

“You tried to get out before me, so I wouldn’t do anything to you.”

“No.”

“You’re lying.” Scott grabbed Henry’s backpack and ran. Henry chased him out the door and around the back of the school, onto the football field. Scott slowed up by the goal posts. As Henry caught up, Scott swung the bag into Henry’s midsection and knocked him down.

“Loser,” Scott said.

Scott kicked Henry and started to walk away. Henry staggered to his feet. He looked at his bookbag. He looked at Scott. He took a deep breath. He looked at Scott again.

“Loser,” Scott repeated, and walked away.

Doug caught up with Henry. “You want pizza?” Doug asked.

“Maybe tomorrow,” Henry replied.

“You always say that.”

Henry walked home, unlocked the door, went up to his room, and unpacked his bag. He put his history textbook on the shelf, his baseball glove on his desk, threw away the pamphlet about gonorrhea, and, slowly, put the gun back under his bed. “Maybe tomorrow,” Henry thought to himself. “You always say that.”