Viewing Thread:
"Bully - Story Thread."

Right then, further to my "Stop it" plea for a ceasation of tales about war/murder/violence towards women, here is a "shrot story!!" to kick off a thread.
Add your comments, then write your own story based around the topic of "Bully".
No guns. No murder. No helicopters with infra-red machine-guns. No sniper-sharks. No dragons with boobs. No soldiers.
--------

He was going to get his ass kicked at 3:30.

When he was told, he got that sick feeling and all his thoughts froze leaving the idiot line “Why me? Why me? Why me?” buzzing inside like that annoying light in the math room that always made him twitchy.
The stupid smile across the other boy’s face as he told him, the fat lazy grin told him exactly why.
Because he wasn’t the biggest? Wasn’t the fastest? Wasn’t one of those kids that sloped away at lunch break to smoke stolen cigarettes and lie about their sexual exploits?
He hated them.
He had fantasies every single night before he slept that he would somehow be granted superpowers, he would be able to set these apes on fire simply by looking at them.
He knew that wouldn’t happen, but it didn’t stop him thinking about it. He thought he thought too much, that was his problem.
In this gladiatorial atmosphere of school, he was the quiet one that did his homework on time, read books and didn’t measure himself by how many other people he could induce fear in.

Oh he had heard the platitudes, “They only pick on people because they’re frightened of being found out as stupid” “they’ll never amount to anything in the ‘real’ world”
The real world? They always said that didn’t they, as if the real world was some mythical place you travelled to in a longboat after some initiation into adulthood?
Well this was the real world, and the real-deal world facts where that he had been singled out by that loping silverback as the victim of the day.
He kept out of their way, stayed in at lunch to read and walked with his head down in the hope nobody would see him.
But they did.
There was always somebody willing to knock his books off the desk as they walked past, or somebody that threw his bag onto a garage roof as they waited for the bus.
He smiled and pretended that it didn’t bother him, he laughed with the jokes – even when they were about him.
He thought that by displaying tolerance and amusement, they would grow bored and leave him alone. But that wasn’t the way.
Just as he knew he didn’t stand a chance when that final bell went and he had to leave the relative safety of school.

He could already see the crowd waiting, he knew the other kid would crack that dim-watt grin and give his blazer to a lackey.
And he knew that the kids that would cheer and scream the loudest were the ones like him. They wouldn’t be happy that he was getting pounded, they would be happy that it wasn’t them that day. He imagined their frenzied, electric-eyed encouragement of his beating before they quickly left, relieved that they got to walk home unmolested that day.
There was only an hour left of the day, 60 minutes left for him to wait and worry.
Already his guts were twisting inside, filling him with that hot fear that made his palms sweat and his legs feel that, if he were to get up, he would crash down in a pile of arms, legs and sobs.

He couldn’t figure a way out of this. He was going to get stomped, pure and simple.
Why? Why didn’t these alpha-males ever decide to fight each other? What good did beating on smaller kids do? It didn’t make them any tougher surely? If they felt they were bad, then why not agree to fight themselves? Let the quiet ones get on with learning, reading, studying and silently absorbing the things that interested them?
He hated them. He hated those that could play football well, he hated those that hung around in groups and had their inside jokes. He hated those that stopped talking when he walked past, whispered to each other and laughed.
He had offered, on so many occasions, to trade his soul with the devil in exchange for the horrific death of these people.
But nothing.
So not only was he going to get smashed after school, he had to try and cope with discovering that god and the devil didn’t exist.
Prayers and pleas to both and either had fallen on deaf ears.

How the hell was he supposed to fight this monobrow *and* try to make sense of this startling theological revelation?
30 minutes left now.
Please God/Satan, if you hear me then do something to rescue me from this situation.
God, if you make it so I don’t get beaten up, I promise to visit Nan more often and walk the dog before school and stop thinking about Laura in history like that. Oh, and if you could make it so I don’t need to wear these glasses, that’d be cool. But I’d be happy with the non-fight thing.
Devil, if you stop his heart right now then you have my eternal soul for your bidding. I swear to serve you in every way possible if you grant me my wish to see him dead.
Please? I don’t mind which one of you hears me, just do something.
15 minutes left now.
Why was the teacher staring at him? Everyone was turned to watch him. Oh no, he had been asked a question…typical, you try to make a deal with the devil and Mr Nash is waiting for you to answer.
He couldn’t answer. Let them laugh at him, he couldn’t care less to be honest.

Why had God abandoned him like this?
He had been a good person hadn’t he? He hadn’t murdered anybody, had never stolen anything bigger than a pen from Smiths, hadn’t once set fire to anything. So why? Why? Because God must be busy helping orphans or singing kum-byebloody-ar with his stupid angels.
Well fine, that’s how it was going to be huh? Balls to you God, and when we do meet? I’m going to punch you in the face for this.

5 mins left now.
A couple of the others had turned to smile at him throughout the lesson. Oh they were eager for this, they would jeer and slap each other’s backs as they walked home afterwards.
And tomorrow would be the replay and commentary. He would suffer people laughing at him for not besting the hulking slab of stupidity that decided to beat him up.
Great.
Just great.
And now the bell, now it’s time to hope somebody stops the fight before he was killed. He couldn’t run, that would be worse than the names.
So he’ll just put his glasses in his bag, leave it by the gate and try to reason with a creature of pure determination.
A thing made of cheap aftershave that barely covered his rank b.o, cropped hair that exposed his sloping skull and home-drawn tattoos on his knuckles that said “hayt” and “booz”.
This sucked, to get pounded by an illiterate mass of hormones and Lambert & Butler nicked from the co-op.

And just as he left, Nash stopped him. Christ, a lecture from Nash and then the fight.
Nash gave him detention? Tonight? You had to give 24hrs notice for detention though, you couldn’t just…
And then it dawned on him, if he was in detention then he wouldn’t have to fight Kong.
He could have burst into tears of gratitude right there and then, he couldn’t make the fight but it wasn’t his fault.
Oh thank you god, thank you for answering his prayers.
Nash laughed at him and told him that god wasn’t in attendance.
Which was odd, because he’d never said anything out loud.

I've been trying to write 'freakish' stuff recently - situations which are grotesque.

How... odd. reminded me for some reason of The Descent.

Fantastic, that cheered me up. :D

Can I join in? It's about a bully - kind of.
-------

THE GIRL IN THE CLOSET

She's in the dark. Captive in a confined space. Spying through a tiny hole.
I know she's watching me, wondering who the hell I am. I can hear the questions swirling around inside her head:

-Why are his wrists and ankles manacled?
-Why is he wearing a frilly pink dress?
-Why is his hair set in pigtails?
-Why is his left eye sealed with a black tape?
-Why are his toenails painted yellow?
-Why are his lips sown together?

I know the answers. I'm looking directly at Him.
Kneeling on the floor in the far corner, draped in pristine white, His face concealed behind a red mask, He's m*sturbating under His gown whilst turning the pages of a glossy magazine. And if I'm not mistaken, those words He's reciting in stuttering whispers are from an Islamic text, probably The Koran. "Mohammed this, Allah that." He's been stroking and stoking His serpentine fire for at least forty revolutions of the clock.

tick
tick

The girl in the closet can't see Him. I'm sure of this because I too have been locked in that dark place. Punishment, you see. It's the punishment hole. She's obviously broken one of the rules. No doubt she was stripped and whipped with the sting-rod before being slung into its damp shadows by the Mother - that's Him over there - He doesn't look kindly on those who break the rules.

You're probably wondering what my voiceless simmerings are aluding to? Rules, what rules? Well, you can't miss them - they're emblazoned in thick paint on the walls in every room of this labyrinthian den:

DON'T SPEAK
DON'T RESIST

Quite simply really.
I've been the Mother's living mannikin for as long as my memories stretch back. That's what He wants me for; that's what He does to me. He uses my appearance as a mirror for His current mood or fetish. Of course, it was only natural for me to resist at first; I was dead to His dreams - short-sighted, closed-minded, unworthy of His greatness - but eventually I saw the errors of my disobedience. I was thrashed red raw for my own good. My out-of-sync conditioning needed to be exorcised. He stuck pins in my face; pushed spikes down my urethra; poured boiling water over my hands and feet; sealed my mouth with a tapestry touch. Now I just let Him do what He desires. My will is free to accept His power. I've grown to love and cherish the Mother's superior way - His vision, His philosophy, His art, His alchemy of nonchalant transmogrification.

He doesn't speak much; He communicates more with gestures than words. His long fingers are to my knowing like an alphabet of daggers: pointers that cut through the flesh of shallow meaning and arrive swiftly at the marrow of hard clarity. I used to think that silence was the voice of God, but after months of being entwined in the Mother's mesmeric womb I've come to realize that silence is just a creative space: a piece of virgin paper to be filled with the fantasy of untamed design and freakish machinations.

I'm guessing she's here to satisfy His erotic whims. He's probably sampled her sweet flesh countless times already. But He is the Mother, and she mustn't resist His ineffable cravings. She'll learn. Seventy-two hours in the punishment closet without food or water, wallowing in her own saturated stench, that'll teach her to conform to His wishes. Perhaps Mother will allow me to watch Him do her one time? I can but dream.

Hm. I think His Ladyship has just arrived at the apex of his mystical climax.... I wonder what will unfold next? I'm praying His inspiration will turn on me. I crave further transformation. The intensity of His creative attention is like bolts of divine lightning striking my brain.
The girl in the closet is in the dark - spying through that tiny hole. I know she's watching me, wondering who the hell I am.

he sipped his tea, smallest finger extended

"you call this tea?"

A little effort I put together sometime ago. Not the best.





Pete stared long and hard at the object he was holding. He gazed in marvel at it, of how harmless it looked to someone not acquainted to it, like the Dodo when he first saw man. The Dodo hadn’t lasted long.
Pete looked at the long, smooth, silver barrel and the beautifully crafted handle, made up of pine wood with a fine polished finish. He opened up the gun, and looked at the six bullets all neatly positioned inside, all in their own little space, just like peas in a pod. Only these little pieces of metal were a lot more dangerous that peas. Alot more.
Pete closed up the gun again, and cocked it. He raised it to his right temple, and slid off the safety.

“What the hell am I doing?” A voice inside him asked. Another replied. “Your going to kill yourself, Pete. You talked yourself into it. Your divorced, your in debt and you are hated by your family. You said you wanted to end it Pete, well, pull the trigger and end it.”
“I can’t, I’m scared, I don’t want to.” Wailed Pete. Whoever said suicide was the cowards way out, he asked himself. Some nimrod that had obviously never contemplated it, probably.
Suddenly he had an idea. He had a two pence coin in his faded jeans pocket, his only remainder from his night out playing poker. He would make one final, decisive bet with it. He pulled it out. I’ll flip it, he told himself. Heads, and I’ll shoot myself. Tails, and I won’t. How ironic, he thought. The sort of money I would never care about, is the money that decides whether I’ll live or die tonight.

He pulled his chair over to the kitchen table, an ugly mahogany surface, which his ex-wife had wanted. She had picked all the furniture in the house, which was nearly all tacky crap. Therefore, when he tried to pawn it off to repay debts, he got next to nothing for it. That bitchh would have been welcome to the house, he thought, instead of taking everything else.

No point thinking of that now, Pete decided, its all history. What I have to do now is toss this damned coin. He stood up, set the gun carefully down on the kitchen table, and positioned the coin above his thumbnail as he made the “tossing position” - as he liked to call it.

He built up the pressure in his thumb, then released it, shoving the 2p up, up into the air. It moved in slow motion almost, as he climbed up to its peak height and then slowly turned, and hurtled towards the floor.

It hit the floor without bouncing, and just lay there, flat in the corner of the room, daring Pete to come and look at it. What would it be, Pete asked himself, as he walked over to it.

Heads, or Tails?

Heh, well I wrote this just the other day.
Already put it up, but it still fits in.
Although not very good:

**

So long, guys.
We’ve had some great times together.

But I’ll never get to save you all a place in front of me in the lunch queue again.
And I’ll never even get to pay for all your lunches again.

Hey - remember that time in PE when you pulled my shorts down for a record ten times?
And then afterwards we all got the basketballs out and booted them around. Yeah, I got my nose broken and a few cracked ribs - bruises all over. And I think Andy fell and twisted his ankle.

Then there was that other time. You all dared me to stay locked in the school cupboard all night. Everyone was cracking up when I got found in the morning.
Good times.

I never really said thanks - but when my mum died, you really helped. All those jokes you made about it, about her. They really took my mind off it, cheers guys.
And the same again when my dad got paralysed in that car crash - not a minute went by without someone telling a joke. Always trying to cheer me up.

All the games we used to play at lunch - those were great.
Remember when we started lobbing stones at each-other across the playground? You were all gonna get done, but I took the blame for you. Good friends stick together, hey?

And all the play-fights we had, learning to take the pain. I remember when I met you five outside the chippie once - we had a fight then. And some idiot rang the police in - we were only mucking around - and they took me to casualty. They thought you’d actually hurt me.

Always the relaxed atmosphere with you lot. It was great. And when Lee took p!ss out of my hair, and my clothes, and the way I talk - that had everyone rolling around in hysterics. He was always like that - hilarious.
I’ll probably miss him the most.

Lessons were the same. We’d always steal eachother’s stuff while the other wasn’t looking. One time you took my coat and my bag and my books without me realising - then chucked them all out the window.
Then the teacher told me to get my stuff out - we couldn’t stop laughing. She got so annoyed though - sent all you lot out for the whole lesson. Great stuff.

And then in Science when we melted all the things in my pencil case, and my actual pencil case. That was fun - every time I got new stuff, we’d melt that too. And Mr. Williams always complained about the funny smell.

So long, guys.
Thanks for the memories.

Trapped:
--------

It is dark; I wonder how long I have been in here now. I don’t know why they had to put me here in the first place. I didn’t do anything to them. They always do things like this to me, just because I don’t do sports or don’t go out smoking with them they torture me like this.

I don’t know what time it is but it is probably late, I would know if they hadn’t taken my watch, they’ve probably smashed it up like they did with my glasses. They cost £100; my mum will go mad with me when she finds out. I can’t tell her the truth; I will have to tell her I broke them by accident. It is best she doesn’t know what they do to me it would only upset her.

I feel tired now, I have retraced my steps and there isn’t anything I could have done to avoid this punishment. They grabbed me after maths, my favourite class; they stamped on my glasses and took my watch then locked me in here. I think it is a cleaning cupboard as the faint stench is prevalent in the blackness of the room.

They think just because I get good grades and don’t have the same interests as them that I am inferior. That I cannot feel the pain then inflict on me and that their taunts don’t hurt me inside. It must be late now, it looks like I will be in here all night. But someone will notice I am missing, won’t they?

I am so tired now, but I cannot sleep. I cannot lay down anywhere and I am dizzy from inhaling these fumes. My mum will be wondering where I am, I am so sorry, it is my fault. I should fight back but last time I tried that I got a broken nose and bruised ribs. I don’t know how much longer I can lie to my mum about my injuries; she’ll figure it out sooner or later.

What’s that? There was a noise, footsteps. Someone has come for me! Someone out there does care about me. I listen more and the footsteps get louder, I can hear that there is more than one person. I bang on the door and yell at the top of my voice, they cannot ignore me, they will find me.

After a short silence I hear, “Hey Pete, guess who?”
I can’t believe it, it is them. The bullies who did this to me. What have they come back for? Haven’t they tortured me enough for one day?
“Let me out!” I cried, “Please.”
After another short silence I hear the clank of keys in the lock of the door and the creak as it opens. My vision is still blurry due to the absence of my glasses but I can make out two figures in front of me. The entire hall is dark and a flashlight in one of the figure’s hands dances around. He shines it in my face almost blinding me. “Are you OK?” he whispers. I nod hazily, trying to adjust to my surroundings.

Whilst still in a bit of a daze I hear a stretching sound and before I know what is going on a piece of duct tape is over my mouth and I have been thrown to the floor. They grab my legs and start to tie those too. I kick in protest but they overpower me, just like they always do. I give up fighting and they drag me through the broken school door onto the playing field. The two figures drop me and I crawl to my feet. One of them draws his hand back and I feel his fist hit me in the jaw. I scream as some of my teeth come loose and blood sprays from my mouth. I fall to the floor coughing and feel a boot hit me in my ribs, knocking me onto by back. This is the worst they have done, I want to cry but I can’t, I begin to choke on my own blood.

They pull me up to my feet once more and I feel rope around my wrist being pulled tightly. Then I am being lifted and tied up. They have strung me up to the football goals. They continue tying my ankles to the posts but I don’t fight back, there is no point. Once they have finished stringing me up they simply walk away. They have left me here alone and cold until someone finds me tomorrow morning. I finally begin to sob. I feel the warm tears trickle down my bruised cheek and I ask myself the same question over and over, “Why me?”

I open my eyes I look up at the night sky. My vision is still blurred and the tears aren’t helping my sight but I see two yellow lights at the other side of the football pitch. They are moving quickly towards me. I hear the gentle hum of an engine and realise the lights are headlights. The car is speeding towards me and I am helpless again, just like all the other times.

I screw my eyes tightly shut and take a deep breath knowing that this is it. My escape from fear, pain and injustice. This is my freedom.

That was brilliant mate, the ending was grade A.

I have a story I will post in a second that falls pretty well in with the theme of this thread.

Right then, further to my "Stop it" plea for a ceasation of tales about war/murder/violence towards women, here is a "shrot story!!" to kick off a thread.
Add your comments, then write your own story based around the topic of "Bully".
No guns. No murder. No helicopters with infra-red machine-guns. No sniper-sharks. No dragons with boobs. No soldiers.
--------

He was going to get his ass kicked at 3:30.

When he was told, he got that sick feeling and all his thoughts froze leaving the idiot line “Why me? Why me? Why me?” buzzing inside like that annoying light in the math room that always made him twitchy.
The stupid smile across the other boy’s face as he told him, the fat lazy grin told him exactly why.
Because he wasn’t the biggest? Wasn’t the fastest? Wasn’t one of those kids that sloped away at lunch break to smoke stolen cigarettes and lie about their sexual exploits?
He hated them.
He had fantasies every single night before he slept that he would somehow be granted superpowers, he would be able to set these apes on fire simply by looking at them.
He knew that wouldn’t happen, but it didn’t stop him thinking about it. He thought he thought too much, that was his problem.
In this gladiatorial atmosphere of school, he was the quiet one that did his homework on time, read books and didn’t measure himself by how many other people he could induce fear in.

Oh he had heard the platitudes, “They only pick on people because they’re frightened of being found out as stupid” “they’ll never amount to anything in the ‘real’ world”
The real world? They always said that didn’t they, as if the real world was some mythical place you travelled to in a longboat after some initiation into adulthood?
Well this was the real world, and the real-deal world facts where that he had been singled out by that loping silverback as the victim of the day.
He kept out of their way, stayed in at lunch to read and walked with his head down in the hope nobody would see him.
But they did.
There was always somebody willing to knock his books off the desk as they walked past, or somebody that threw his bag onto a garage roof as they waited for the bus.
He smiled and pretended that it didn’t bother him, he laughed with the jokes – even when they were about him.
He thought that by displaying tolerance and amusement, they would grow bored and leave him alone. But that wasn’t the way.
Just as he knew he didn’t stand a chance when that final bell went and he had to leave the relative safety of school.

He could already see the crowd waiting, he knew the other kid would crack that dim-watt grin and give his blazer to a lackey.
And he knew that the kids that would cheer and scream the loudest were the ones like him. They wouldn’t be happy that he was getting pounded, they would be happy that it wasn’t them that day. He imagined their frenzied, electric-eyed encouragement of his beating before they quickly left, relieved that they got to walk home unmolested that day.
There was only an hour left of the day, 60 minutes left for him to wait and worry.
Already his guts were twisting inside, filling him with that hot fear that made his palms sweat and his legs feel that, if he were to get up, he would crash down in a pile of arms, legs and sobs.

He couldn’t figure a way out of this. He was going to get stomped, pure and simple.
Why? Why didn’t these alpha-males ever decide to fight each other? What good did beating on smaller kids do? It didn’t make them any tougher surely? If they felt they were bad, then why not agree to fight themselves? Let the quiet ones get on with learning, reading, studying and silently absorbing the things that interested them?
He hated them. He hated those that could play football well, he hated those that hung around in groups and had their inside jokes. He hated those that stopped talking when he walked past, whispered to each other and laughed.
He had offered, on so many occasions, to trade his soul with the devil in exchange for the horrific death of these people.
But nothing.
So not only was he going to get smashed after school, he had to try and cope with discovering that god and the devil didn’t exist.
Prayers and pleas to both and either had fallen on deaf ears.

How the hell was he supposed to fight this monobrow *and* try to make sense of this startling theological revelation?
30 minutes left now.
Please God/Satan, if you hear me then do something to rescue me from this situation.
God, if you make it so I don’t get beaten up, I promise to visit Nan more often and walk the dog before school and stop thinking about Laura in history like that. Oh, and if you could make it so I don’t need to wear these glasses, that’d be cool. But I’d be happy with the non-fight thing.
Devil, if you stop his heart right now then you have my eternal soul for your bidding. I swear to serve you in every way possible if you grant me my wish to see him dead.
Please? I don’t mind which one of you hears me, just do something.
15 minutes left now.
Why was the teacher staring at him? Everyone was turned to watch him. Oh no, he had been asked a question…typical, you try to make a deal with the devil and Mr Nash is waiting for you to answer.
He couldn’t answer. Let them laugh at him, he couldn’t care less to be honest.

Why had God abandoned him like this?
He had been a good person hadn’t he? He hadn’t murdered anybody, had never stolen anything bigger than a pen from Smiths, hadn’t once set fire to anything. So why? Why? Because God must be busy helping orphans or singing kum-byebloody-ar with his stupid angels.
Well fine, that’s how it was going to be huh? Balls to you God, and when we do meet? I’m going to punch you in the face for this.

5 mins left now.
A couple of the others had turned to smile at him throughout the lesson. Oh they were eager for this, they would jeer and slap each other’s backs as they walked home afterwards.
And tomorrow would be the replay and commentary. He would suffer people laughing at him for not besting the hulking slab of stupidity that decided to beat him up.
Great.
Just great.
And now the bell, now it’s time to hope somebody stops the fight before he was killed. He couldn’t run, that would be worse than the names.
So he’ll just put his glasses in his bag, leave it by the gate and try to reason with a creature of pure determination.
A thing made of cheap aftershave that barely covered his rank b.o, cropped hair that exposed his sloping skull and home-drawn tattoos on his knuckles that said “hayt” and “booz”.
This sucked, to get pounded by an illiterate mass of hormones and Lambert & Butler nicked from the co-op.

And just as he left, Nash stopped him. Christ, a lecture from Nash and then the fight.
Nash gave him detention? Tonight? You had to give 24hrs notice for detention though, you couldn’t just…
And then it dawned on him, if he was in detention then he wouldn’t have to fight Kong.
He could have burst into tears of gratitude right there and then, he couldn’t make the fight but it wasn’t his fault.
Oh thank you god, thank you for answering his prayers.
Nash laughed at him and told him that god wasn’t in attendance.
Which was odd, because he’d never said anything out loud.