Estimated reading time: 5 minutes
In a school yard, a group of kids dressed in uniform form a ring, looking over the shoulders of two boys, both encircled. The boys, not yet teens and of similar age, stare at one another from opposite ends.
“How you wanna set them up?” The boy has a ruddy bruised face, flat, thick nose and shiny black hair the colour of beetle skin.
His opponent looks up from the little pouch in his hand. Smaller in stature, he has blonde ashen hair and a pale face.
“Well,” he says in a softly spoken voice. “When I played Zeus we decided to put them in a cross shape.”
There is sudden laughter from some of the children standing behind the dark-haired boy. He turns and exchanges knowing looks with those nearest.
“Yeah, we figured you’d say that,” he says. “This is the final. Has to be random. Those are the rules.”
The dark-haired boy pulls out a purple velvet bag from his pocket, walks to the chalked circle in the centre and tips it open. Marbles fall out, clink one another and spread out, safely contained within the chalk perimeter. The boy reaches down and picks one up – a large flame red marble, and rolls it between his palms.
The light-haired boy does likewise, before tucking the cream bag back in his pocket. He reaches down and picks up a large blue-green marble. A few gasps from the group make him anxious that he’s already made a fatal mistake.
The crowd step forward to get a better look. Some express surprise at the number of marbles at stake. There are various shades of colours on display, with some noticeably smaller, and potentially harder to hit.
Standing over the circle enclosing the twenty or so marbles, they perform rock-paper-scissors to see who goes first. The dark-haired boy wins. The pale boy retreats while his opponent circles the clustered group of marbles, assessing the angles to spot an easy opener. Returning behind the designated chalk line some three metres from the circle, he crouches, weighs the shooter marble in his hand and flicks it at one of the bigger marbles – a milky grey one with a big red spot. Smack. His shooter knocks it straight out of the circle.
“Gotcha!” he cries triumphantly, receiving cheers from those gathered behind.
It would have travelled a lot further if a foot hadn’t trapped its course. One of the spectators bends down, picks it up and tosses it across to the dark-haired boy.
“Thanks Apollo,” he says, flashing a smile of crooked teeth as he pockets the prize.
The pale boy twitches nervously, assessing the situation. He picks up his blue-green shooter and leans over the chalk line to target a marble already near the edge. Tensing, and with breath held, he flicks it. It misses. His marble fails to connect. There is stifled laughter behind the dark-haired boy. Someone tosses the marble back in his direction. The pale boy drops it, drawing more amused laughs, before picking it up on the second attempt.
The dark-haired boy seems to grow in confidence. On the next go, he breaks a little cluster of three and sends them all flying off the circle. In response, the pale boy, who was growing paler with the loss of each marble, begins to shake nervously. The movements affect his aim.
Four brutal minutes later it is all over. The school bell rings, dispersing the group. The dark-haired boy has won a legion of new fans. Most of those gathered appear to have sided with the victor at the end, coming over to offer congratulations and shake his hand.
A teacher approaches just as he is scooping up his winning marbles and depositing them inside the bag.
“Boys, what the…I hope you weren’t gambling?”
“No sir,” the dark-haired boy says, quickly getting to his feet with the swollen bag. “No money. Just playing for marbles. Harmless fun. See?”
The teacher peeks inside the bag and then looks across at the other boy. In his hand is the flat cream pouch. “Doesn’t look like much fun if only one wins now does it?”
The dark-haired boy tries to hide his smile, looking down at the ground. The pale boy is close to tears.
“Give him one.”
“What?”
“You have plenty there. Give him one. It’s only fair.”
“Sir, but—”
“Do you want detention?”
The boy shakes his head and mumbles a curse. His eyes flash with rage. He parts the bag’s opening, looks inside.
“Go on,” the teacher says, watching him delay.
The dark-haired boy reaches inside and plucks out a marble, handing it to the pale boy. The boy takes it and stares down at it. It is his shooter. The blue and green marble. The colours seem to shimmer. Wisps of puffy white cloud the surface. It dazzles in his hand, catching the overhead sun’s rays.
“One way or another I’m getting it back,” the boy says under his breath so that only his enemy could hear. “Just you wait. It belongs to me.”
Their eyes meet. An intense stare that neither is willing to break.
“Now, Lucifer,” the teacher says, intervening and guiding both boys with a firm hand on their shoulder. “Isn’t it a lot better when we all get along?”
This story was written for the ambitious creative project, ‘The Weekly Kook’, where I release a brand new short story every week for a year, totalling…yep, you guessed it – 52 stories.
Check all the stories here as I release them.
