First Fight - Ch 2 of 7

By SWARM

Original link: https://www.storiesspace.com/stories/adventure/first-fight-ch-2-of-7.aspx

Tags: childhood, family, firstfight, humor, kungfu, math, memories, philippines, sadness

Added: 02 Sep 2017 Views: 432 Avg Score: 0

The first situation in life, where there is only one door way out. For this matter, a door way in.

The New Kids on the Block
 

“Here he comes… run!” I shouted.

And Nestor dodges Michael who was about to touch him. Nestor ran back to our base.

“That was a close one!” he laughs.

They already have three of our men. If Michael touches Nestor, it would only be me who is left. Either I would be caught then, or rescue my men back by simply reaching and to touch them. Unless for a graceful miracle, I can also win by stomping their base. But that would be impossible. Michael's men cover them, and they rescued their POWs back, where it was four.  

“Come on… Come on… Either you come to us, or us to you…” Michael teases.

Oh, you sneaky little man. Even shakes his butt close right in front us.

The winning group is all smiles. And the teasing is a distraction to our plan for the rescue.

Then a surprising echo coming from a small pistol is fired, and we got scared ducking down but standing. Martinez birds and Sparrows flocks away from the trees. We looked around where the sound sources, and it is somewhere deep in the bushes, somewhere straight ahead from one direction. There we see a tall person with one leg on a rock like Captain Morgan. As our pupils focus, it only makes him taller because of a smaller person on his side. And the small person swings at the air menacingly with his fists gives no mercy to the poor banana tree near by with his kicks of his own interpretation. And he means business. The tall light skinned person is a kid, a little older than us, and he has his right arm up holding a smoking homemade toy gun. His hair bangs are flipped from a single nod, and the skin on the side of his scalp shows he's not from around here. The light brown jean he wears and his sleeveless shirt tells us he's from the city.

Hello, Michael, who is standing now at your base?

The attention is back at the game, and it’s a disappointment for the winning team. Both sides call it a day.

“Is he going to shoot us?” Michael wonders and back to the bush again. His father is a cop, and that’s all I can say for now for this story. But the message from the little one is loud and clear.

“Nah, that’s Junior. He just wants to show off his toy is much more fun,” Nestor said. “The karate guy is Richard, his little brother.”

“Maybe he wants to play with us?” James said.

“They’re not from around here, and they don’t know our game,” Ambo replied.

As time passes, we get to know the new kids on the block. And they remain as more extreme. Junior, and yet still a child, with his parents out of town, he roams a black car by the dirt where we play, screams like a maniac riding his small chrome BMX around town with a little samurai. His younger brother remains as the karate guy who can take on anybody by the playground. Smack talk behind other’s back is a luxury. At this age, you are acutely aware of the consequences of parents to parents peace treaty. Leather belt welts on us kid’s neck are common. Just another ordinary branch that grew from the old tree, the flow of the wind is just another movement of each leaf. Sometimes a Hornet passes by, or that annoying bird who just can’t keep his beak off that fruit you like.

The new kids on the block are called back inside the house. And we also left for home. The sunset is beaming orange, more Martinez birds are flocking to the coconut trees, and the guy that lives at the church is about to pull the rope that makes the tower bell says is it seven pm. There it is, as I entered the house, it is seven pm. After dinner, my grandpa and I sit on the balcony, until the gasses from our belly joins the wind. The sheet metal roofings of each house share the same color, reflected by the bright stars and the round moon. By now, I graduated knowing where babies from, where black people from in the states, and about the stars falling are not of stars at all. I ask my grandfather about the house down deep within the bushes across our house.

“Tomorrow,” he said.

“Okay,” I said. “Goodnight Melba!” I shouted.

Behind the closed window, “Goodnight, Vincent!” she replied.


To be continued…