Short Story

Authors Note: This story is based on a true, personal experience. I chose this because I knew the emotions involved under these circumstances and wanted to face the challenge of having to portray them accurately through writing. The technique utilized within the story "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge," written by Ambrose Bierce, helped add to the feelings and events throughout the story.The defense mechanism shown is similar to denial in that the character watches as events play out in front of her, hoping they will improve, oblivious to the fact that her life is changing and will never go back to the way it was before.

The Boy with the Gumball Gun

            Trying to escape life’s difficulties has been a problem mankind has been putting up with for all eternity—attempting to do this by running away from the evil predator that preys upon their minds, thinking that this will help them in the long run, while really it is slowly weakening them until they fall to their knees in surrender. But, what is one to do when there’s nowhere to run? What protection is there when the source of your pain and sorrow lives next door?

I was a carefree, eight year old girl with muddy clothes, Band-Aids covering every inch of skin, and curly, brown hair hanging in front of my face. I was outside with my grandma on one scorching hot summer day in Wisconsin, watching her plant flowers in the garden on the side of our house when I saw a tiny red ball shoot across our neighbor’s yard.

I looked down below the wall that separated our two houses and saw a boy who looked to be around my age holding a gun that shot more of those little spheres up into his tree. I slowly crept down the hill and watched as he pulled the trigger sending more of those mysterious balls into flight. With the curiosity of his unusual antics getting the better of me, I strolled down the hill to greet the stranger, the one that would change my life. He was the stranger that built me up, implanted his friendship upon my heart, then slowly, piece by piece, shredded it to bits and left it behind as if it meant nothing.

He introduced himself by the name of Jake, with his shaggy blonde hair hanging in front of his warm, brown eyes, acting as a curtain covering the soul that lay deep within him. He explained to me that what he had was not a real gun but a gumball gun. I stood by and watched as the innocent target, now identified as a robin sitting innocently among the branches, became the target and was shot at—a poor animal that I would later on relate to more than the boy standing next to me. Luckily for the bird, with a cheap, plastic gumball gun, aiming was not entirely accurate. But with every shot that was fired I began to realize that there was something different about the boy next door, different than any other boy I’d met, and I discovered more and more about him day by day.

We both loved animals. I had a stocky, noisy Pug named Evinrude. He had a playful, energetic Golden Retriever named Kosey. We spent plenty of time with our companions, throwing a ball that they would fetch or petting them until they fell asleep. When Kosey died of a tumor, I was the first one to comfort my grieving friend. And when Evinrude died of kidney failure, he returned the favor. We were there for each other providing support at our strongest times, and reassurance at our weakest.

We both loved bugs. Jake and I would dig in the garden until our naturally peach colored skin turned dark brown, searching for the worm of just the right length. We would create a carefully planned out habitat inside a cereal bowl; it would be tragic if the worm squirmed its way back into the sodden ground. With every worm we caught, we had a butterfly to match. But although the blend of colors, ranging from red to purple, were intriguing, I was frightened by the big wings, long legs, and hairy body, so Jake would catch them for me and put them in a container, trusting me to keep watch as he found more. The sky, tinted to orange by the setting sun, the closing flowers in the garden on the side of the house, the birds, the squirrels, the sleepiest of neighbors—all had prepared for night. It was then that the lightning bugs would come out. This was our favorite time of day; it seemed as if the insects were teasing us by blinking their lights, disappearing just long enough that we would lose track of their whereabouts. But Jake and I would never step down from a challenge, not against the pesky bugs, not against the time, and most certainly not against each other.

            We both played sports. Jake and I would spend hours outside throwing a baseball back and forth. Whenever one of us underestimated our strength and threw it down the hill, we would argue about who would have to go get it (it was usually him). And while at my softball practices late on a school night, I could always look forward to the bike wheels spinning in my direction, the little horn honking as he rode up alongside the fence to watch me play. On the side of the field he stood watching, with a smile of incomparable compassion, an attitude of matchless adoration and loyalty. We were inseparable. You’d think we were siblings with the constant company and playful arguments. Jake and I really did do everything together, go everywhere together. But there was one place we went that would change both of our lives forever.

            The driveway down the street became blocked by a moving truck on one summer night four years since the day we first met. Being the outgoing, pleasant neighbors that we were, we decided to greet the new family. There was a mother, a father, a son three years older than us, and then there was Ryan. He was our age. He had a dog. He liked bugs. He played baseball. But he was a boy, the one factor that made him unlike me but exactly like Jake. At the age of 12, you’d think the whole “cooties” thing was overrated. But ever so slowly I began to watch as my best friend drifted away.

Jake would choose to go down the street to Ryan’s house instead of up the street to mine. I’d see a baseball land in my yard quickly followed by the face of our new neighbor, running to get it. As much as I missed Jake, I refused to get to know Ryan. He had always found a way to get into trouble, told me repulsive lies, and was downright rude. If that’s who Jake wanted to hang out with, I couldn’t stop him. Of course I met other people, some of whom I’m still great friends with, but nothing felt the same as the connection that Jake and I shared. It seemed as though I would never again have a friendship that dependable, that close to my heart.

There was one day, just one, since the day Ryan moved in that Jake stopped by my house. He asked if I could come outside and play baseball with him. I thought it was for old time’s sake, like we were about to take a walk down memory lane and revive all lost feelings. But when I cautiously asked with the most casual demeanor why he wasn’t hanging out with Ryan, I was informed that Ryan was out of town. So that was it. I was just a second option. I was the one he came to when he was bored and had nothing better to do. I finished playing with him, acting as if I had a nice time, but deep inside, my heart had shattered into a million pieces. Ryan had won. That challenge, a test harder than one that any bug had ever offered, a fight more difficult than the setting sun had ever presented, was the one and only time that I had finally taken the step down, and learned to let go.  

Friendship is a memory who, when he comes to an end, is to be remembered with a smile of reminiscence, even by those most hurt by the departure. I don’t talk to Jake anymore. I don’t see him outside as much as I used to. When I do, he doesn’t even wave. But no matter what Jake does or doesn’t do, I will always know about a side to him that no one else has seen. He’s the boy who doesn’t mind playing with Barbie walkie-talkies. He’s the one who could sit on my porch for hours making paper airplanes. He’s the one I could say anything to and who could always find a way to make me laugh. He would help me scare away our obnoxious neighbors, help kill the bees that I was deathly afraid of, and he somehow had the patience to try to teach me how to snowboard. To me, he will always be the boy with the gumball gun.

Mimic Lines:

1. The water, touched to gold by the early sun, the brooding mists under the banks at some distance down the stream, the fort, the soldiers, the piece of drift—all had distracted him.
2. At the bottom of the steps she stands waiting, with a smile of ineffable joy, an attitude of matchless grace and dignity.
3. Death is a dignitary who, when he comes announced, is to be received with formal manifestation of respect, even by those most familiar with him.