This story is in response to last week’s writing prompt, found here.
“Strike back, son. Hit him! Don’t let him get away with nothing.” The father finally stepped between the riled-up group of boys in the street. After he pulled his bloodied son from the mayhem, he smacked him upside the head: once, twice, thrice. Specks of red flew everywhere. The crowd of boys hooted and hollered, recording TikTok videos and smoking blunts.
“You coward. Don’t learn nothing. When you going to become a man? When you going to set those books aside and be somebody?” He grabbed his boy by the collar and dragged him up close. “You even listening?” He struck him again.
Years passed. The boy hardened. He traded his books for dumbbells and boxing gloves, his good grades for drugs. His father taught him about perspective, loyalty, protecting his family – his blood.
It reached a point where everyone knew his name on the street: Young Gun. He could practically roam anywhere and do anything. On his turf, at least.
But the boys who used to bully him and tease him about his big brains no longer messed with him. They steered clear. By now, they’d learned something about him.
He’d become somebody to fear.
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When I read this line I thought maybe the boy was going to become a champion boxer or some other professional athlete: "He traded his books for dumbbells and boxing gloves, his good grades for drugs."
It was only when I read the word "drugs" that I realized he was heading in a bad direction.
Powerful!