Pummeling

    For this I used the word "pummeling" as a start off point. I definitely remember a fight similar to this as child where we all watched one kid get manhandled by another kid. Both had issues. 

Pretty soon the dust got into the two boys eyes and they threw wild, blind punches at each other, trying to connect. Travis was the skinny one and Luke was the tough one. Neither of them wanted to fight over some dumb comment, but by the time nearly every  first, second, and third grader surrounded the two boys chanting, “Fight. Fight. Fight,” there was only one direction to go - toward each other.

Rust Elementary School was just as the name implied - a neglected and dirty little school in Rust, ID sandwiched between a farmer’s field and a forest. During recess the children had something of a code when it came to fights. If one broke out a couple older kids ran over to Mrs. Krindle, an elderly widowed volunteer recess monitor, and asked her to tell them a story about what the world was like before TV. She’d go on an on about her family gathering around the radio and the chant, ‘Fight. Fight. Fight,” would  be nothing more than a  far away murmur.

Eventually the thin dirt slowly fell from the  sky and  settled on Travis and Luke, embraced in their fight. Luke was the tough one on top and Travis was the skinny one lying belly down in the dirt. Travis winced in pain as Luke pulled his arm tighter around the skinny boy’s neck.  Luke used a line he’d heard in one of the movies he watched when he stayed at his dad’s house. “One inch to the left and I can break your neck,” he  said in a panting whisper.

Travis burst out crying, large drops welling and dropping from both eyes.  Most fights  were usually a ball of chaos until they got broken up or until both boys ran from each other, crying. This one would stick in the memory of the onlookers as a one-sided pummeling.

“That’s right,” Luke panted, “let everyone see you cry.”   He’d learned the hold from his older brother who’d done the same thing to him not more than two weeks ago when his dad was busy with a woman he’d brought back from the bar. “Tell me you’re sorry.”

“I-I-I’m sor-rr-rree-ee,” Travis stammered. The words pulsed with his sobs.

Luke stood, dusted himself off, the crowd parted for him as he walked away.

Everyone quickly dispersed, some catching up with Luke, patting him on the back for a job well done. Once they’d all left, Travis looked up, wiped his face with the back of his right hand and smeared the salty, muddy tears over his cheek.  Alone and disgraced, he slumped off, not bothering to pat off his dust-soaked jeans