Who is this Witch that you speak of?

This week’s post is Chapter three as we go through our book. We begin to notice each boy’s personality and watch as their relationship develops. Mark, the class bully, also begins to take his place in our tale. You may also notice a subtle Christian overtone has begun to develop; as a former pastor, I tend to weave Faith in all my work, including the short stories.

In this chapter, “Stick” tells the boys of the Legend of the Witch, and we see each of them react differently.

As you read, try to put yourself in their place; think back to your childhood and the politics of the lunchroom. Note the drone of voices and noise of a busy kitchen. If you try hard enough, you may even catch a faint whiff of food.

I had very much hoped for your feedback, so please let me know what you think. Where can it be improved, what works and what doesn’t? It’s a short read, and I would truly appreciate it.

Chapter 3

                               “Who is this witch that you speak of?”

As soon as we opened the lunchroom door, we met a deafening racket. The large room was, as usual, crammed wall to wall with people. Countless voices stacked one on top of the other, clamoring for food and attention, masses coming and going—all this noise accompanied by the clinking and clanking of pots and pans and utensils banging against trays.

The line was huge, wrapping along the wall and ending at the door. From the back, we heard, “Make a hole, make a hole,” as Mark and his crew came shovin’ their way through the line. Those who didn’t move outta the way were unceremoniously shoved to the side. As he walks past me, he makes sure to plant a sharp slap to the back of my head, hard enough to make my ears ring. Gotta be quick, Miller.

I didn’t even get the courtesy of a sideways glance.

“Cool!” Yelled Stick. “Chicken over cornbread! That’s it, no trades.” He was quick to point the “no trades” clause out.

“That’s fine with me,” I muttered as I rubbed the new knot growin’ on the back of my head.

“I like it good enough,” said David, “But the white beans are the best in my book.”

“Oh dude,” whined Chucky, “Peaches again? I hate those things, they’re all slimy and crap—cain’t even cut ‘em without ‘em jumpin’ off the tray.”

“I’d be glad to take ‘em off yer hands friend,” David spoke up, laying claim to the peaches before Chucky finished his sentence, ensuring he didn’t have a chance to rethink his comment.

At the head of the line sat Mrs. Tuttle, her neck bent and glarin’ at her ledger like Scrooge over numbers. She looked up but just briefly as each kid filed by, making certain to give each tray a thorough examination. All this and never speaking a word.  She didn’t have to.  She knew each kid by name, including address and phone number.

You can always spot the ones with money.  They usually strut through the lunchroom, extra milks proudly on display. Some have as many as three or four stacked on their trays. Once all that food gets gobbled down, and all that milk guzzled, they prance about the room once again, ice cream proudly stuffed into their gapin’ maws.

Ice cream is expensive, a luxury reserved exclusively for the absolute elite. They’re out of reach of normal kids at fifty cents apiece. Most are content with simply watchin’ this spectacle, all the while hoping that daing ice cream hits the floor.

Once we have our trays, we each scan the room for seats. You gotta be careful here as well. Certain groups sit in certain areas; that’s just the way it is.

Without a word, Dave bows his big ol’ head and begins Grace. I’ve never seen him put a bite of food in his mouth without blessin’ it first. The rest of us follow suit, just in case the ol’ boy knows something that we don’t. Quick as amens were said, he raised his head and leaned over to grab Chuckie’s peaches.

Chucky raised his hand, stopping those big sausage fingers. “Slow down, Tonto, you’re gonna get ‘em.  You’re gonna get ‘em.”

Dave looks at him, confused, and mumbles, “Well, I don’t want you gittin’ any of yer slobbers on ‘em.  Might ruin the flavor.”

“Let me tell you somethin’,” replied Chucky, “I can promise you that these peaches were rernt long before they was set on this plate.”

Stick stopped eating for a second and looked up from his tray. “I’ve tried to get mom to fix this at home. She said it sounds nasty; the only thing that should go on cornbread is butter.”

“Not at my house,” I pointed out. “Papaw eats his with milk and molasses says it’s the only way to go.”

Chucky looked up with wonder in his eye. He flipped his spoon around, using it as a pointer. “Have you ever wondered what they do with the rest of that mole?”

David looked up, confused. “Mole? What mole?”

“You know, the rest of the mole, the mole. When they make a jar of mole-asses, what do they do with the rest of the mole?”

Big David stopped mid-chew, almost like he blew a fuse.

“Oh…I git it. That’s a good one friend!”

There it is. This time, I was sure I saw teeth in that smile. Stick and I both shook our heads. Some stuff was simply too stupid to waste a good comment on.

Stick’s not one to give up the floor once he gits yer attention.

“Did yun’z hear about what happened to Scott Porter’s big brother?”

“He tried to take his ol’ lady up to the Leech Cemetery.”

We all stopped; a collective “What?” filled the group.

“Yep, I reckon he was gonna try and impress her or somethin’.”

Ok.  He had me. “What happened?” I asked.

“What do you think happened? Both of ‘em came runnin’ out, screamin’ to beat all hell! That’s what happened.”

“Yeah, right,” I scoffed. “Mr. and Mrs. Cool scared of a graveyard? Yer dreamin’.”

“That’s just what I heard,” he replied.

“Ain’t nobody that dumb,” replied Chucky. “Everybody knows to stay outta there at night. Besides, what’s the point in takin’ a dumb ol’ girl up to a graveyard in the middle of the night anyways? All that fuss, just so you can stick your head into an old headstone and ask some stupid question? I don’t think so.”

“To get an answer, I s‘pose,” answered Stick.

“Answer to what man? And why? Just sounds stupid to me, that’s all.”

David looked up from his peaches. “What are yun’z talkin’ about anyways, all this graveyard and headstone nonsense?”

Even though we had all four grew up hearing the story. Stick was only too happy to tell us all again, with a good bit of himself added in for good measure.

“The way I heard, it goes like this. You see, back nearly a hundred years or so, there was this old woman who lived up around Sinkin’ Creek. I don’t think nobody knew her name for sure. Most folk just called her Wilmide. She lived in the opening of an old spent mine shaft, along with an old one-eyed dog.

“Folks said she s’posed to wear clothes she wove from the hair of whatever animals she ate. She even wore a hat made from chicken feathers and stuff like that. And a necklace that had chicken feet tied to it to boot. Papaw said that if you wanted a love potion, or maybe somebody had wronged you, or even a hex, or somethin’ like that, she was the one to go see. But she wasn’t gonna do it fer free.”

David couldn’t stand this silliness any longer, finally blurting out, “If she didn’t have no use fer foldin’ money, what did a body pay her with then?”

Stick raised his hand, putting him in his place before continuing, “I’m gittin’ there; I’m gittin’ there. Hold ye horses.”

“Papaw said you could bring her anythin’ from dead chickens to dead goats. The deader, the better. What kind depended on what you were askin’ her to do. The bigger the hex, the bigger the price.

“Then came a nasty cold winter, cold like folk around here never seen before. Snow so deep, they say a horse’s belly would rub raw against it. It was durin’ such a winter as this a young lady came to pay the ol’ witch a visit, there she told her story, a truly sad story.

“She said, her ol’ man worked the hooty owl over at the Blue Diamond. At least that’s what he told her he was doin.’ But he was lyin’, ya see. He went and had himself a woman on the side. Nobody knows for sure who she was. Some folk say the mayor’s wife or maybe the sheriff’s; it was anybody’s guess. To make matters even worse, he went and had himself a baby with that woman, whoever she was.

“If that weren’t bad enough, his wife had a baby of her own to tend to, a little baby at that. Well, he was stayin’ gone all the time, sayin’ he was at that mine, workin’ and such. But, even ‘workin’’ as much as he said he was, he wasn’t takin’ proper care and providin’ for his family. Blamed it on the hours at the mine, I reckon.

“One night, it got cold, I mean icy cold, in that ol’ cabin. There weren’t no coal for heat, so that poor little baby up and froze to death. Of course, this drove the wife nuttier than a squirrel turd. Somehow, she had heard through the grapevine about Ol’ Wilmide, and in her terrible grief, took a mind to go see her.

“She wanted revenge on her husband in the worst kinda way, no matter the cost. And she wanted double for the woman he was seein’ as well. She felt she deserved that woman’s baby to make up for the one who died ‘cause of the cold. But old Wilmide asked for a hefty price; she wanted that baby fer herself.

“Why an old woman would want a baby, nobody knows. But the woman was so mad and so wild with grief, she agreed to the old woman’s terms. So, hands were shook, and the deal was done.

“Wasn’t long after that there was a massive cave-in at the Blue Diamond. Twenty-three men lost their lives in that horrible disaster, includin’ the woman’s husband. Mine explosion, they said. Some died right away; them was the lucky ones. The others lingered for some time, days even, until finally, the air ran out. A few even managed to scribble death letters to their families.

“The man’s girlfriend went crazy with grief. I reckon she couldn’t live with his dyin’ and all. So, one cold dark night, she went and jumped to her death over at the bluffs. That same night, the man’s wife found that little baby sittin’ there on her front porch, near froze to death, no note nor nothin’.”

Big David interrupted, “I thought you said the ol’ woman was gonna git that baby.”

“I’m gittin’ there, I’m gittin’ there,” Replied Stick.

“Well, word got out amongst the townfolk, and like it usually does, gossip turned to panic. They just knew it was Ol’ Wilmide’s hex that killed all those brave men. The town leaders put a hangin’ mob together, and they took off up the mountain to git the old witch.

“There they found her, sittin’ in that ol’ mine, the one-eyed dog by her side. I reckon she knew they was comin’ cause all’s she said was, ‘Come on in boys and warm ye’self over by the fire a spell.’ When they made their way over to the warm fire, one of ‘em heard the faint cry of a baby. There by the fire, they found an old basket. In that basket lay that ladies’ baby, wrapped in animal skins.”

The excitement was getting to Chucky, “What did they do, what did they do?”

“I’m gittin’ there, I’m gittin’ there, hold your horses.”

“First, they grabbed the ol’ witch, bound her, hand and foot, with iron cuffs, ‘cause everybody knows a witch cain’t escape from iron bindins. Then they went over to the hearth to gather up that baby. Lo and behold, they was no baby there, but over to the side, they seen that ol’ basket held tight in the jaws of that one-eyed dog. They tried to catch it, but it went runnin’ up the holler. Search parties looked high and low, but the baby and the ol’ dog was nowhere to be found.

“They tied that ol’ woman behind a couple of horses and dragged her all the way into town. That’s where the men beat her to the point of death, even tortured her with hot brandin’ irons and everything. Still, she wouldn’t tell ‘em where the dog or the baby was, not even if her hex was to blame for the cave-in.

“It didn’t matter how much they beat her; she just laid there, laughin’ at ‘em. Through all that torture, she never uttered a single solitary word.

“They built a hangin’ post right then and there, and that’s where they hung her, right smack in the middle of town. Some folk say she never stopped laughin’, even as she hung there, swingin’ in the wind. But at the stroke of midnight, she went silent and limp as a carp.

“Now, everybody knows, you cain’t bury a witch on holy ground, so, they picked a spot way out back of Leech Cemetery. Just outside the fence so’s not to be sinful. Then they sealed her body in an iron box so’s she couldn’t escape and buried her there with nary a single marker.

“Some folk say they seen a big dog standin’ on the next ridge, watchin’ the whole burial. And when the first shovel of dirt fell, that dog began to howl, eerie and ghostly. That howl was said to have been heard for miles up and down the hollers.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard,” scoffed David, “You said there weren’t no headstone.”

“That’s the scary part,” said Stick. “You see, a number of years later, a gravestone mysteriously appeared, almost outta nowhere. No writtin,’ no drawin,’ no nothin,’ just a blank headstone.

“Many folks have tried to knock it down, but it’s always back up the next day. The best anyone could do was knock a hole in the back of it. That’s right. It’s holler. And that hole is said to go down, way down. To what? Nobody knows.

“A lot of folk think it was the child and the dog that put that stone up. If so, they’d have to be as old and gnarled as the ol’ witch herself by now. It’s said they keep it up to this day. Nobody knows for sure.

“Rumor is, if you go there, just at the stroke of midnight, the Witchin’ hour, and drop a dead animal into the hole, she’ll answer a question for you. But be careful; you might not like the answer. If you ask a question and not give her payment, they say that one-eyed dog will come for ya…and yer soul.”

‘Bout that time, a large hand landed hard on my right shoulder, scared the livin’ daylights right outta me. I turned with a jerk, panic in my eyes, to see Burton standing behind me.

“Miller looks like it’s your turn in the washroom next week, don’t forget, OK?”

“Yes sir,” The words came out as a pitiful squeak.

“Oh…and don’t believe all those stories you hear, Okay?” He gave me a wink and went on his way.

It took a second for my heart to regain its rhythm. Chucky was holdin’ his belly he was laughin’ so hard.

“Man, he flat out scared the water outta you! I thought you was gonna fall over there for a second.”

“Ha-ha, Chuck! Why don’t you try shuttin’ up for a while?”

“I don’t believe none of that mess,” barked David. “Just ain’t Christian. All this devil and witch nonsense. Just goes to show a body’s raisin’ is what it does.  Shoulda spent more time in the Lord’s house and less time gossipin’.’’

He got up in a huff and walked to the washroom without so much as a backward glance.

The rest of the day was a strange kind of a blur. Visions of Mark pounding me while my Papaw whipped the tar outta me were all I could think about. Stick’s story made things all the worse. Add a witch into the mess, and you got yourself, well, an even bigger mess.

Snitchin’ was out of the question; a crime of that magnitude was sure to be deadly; every kid knows that. I had only two options. I was gonna get a beatin’ either way, if not by Mark, then from Papaw. I wasn’t sure which one was worse. Right about now, I just wanted to die, or at least disappear entirely.

We here at The Tin Cup Clan know times are tough and valuable. We thank each of you from the bottom of our hearts for spending a bit of it with us. As always, hit a few buttons at the bottom, and give us a thumbs up.

God Bless

The Tin Cup Clan (Mystery of the leech Cemetery Witch)

Below is the second chapter in the Tin Cup Clan’s first mystery. I’m gonna post a chapter about once a week in hopes of needed feedback from the reader. A very good friend Herb Thiel has very graciously spent valuable time editing this work and he has saved me a great deal of embarrassment. You should check his blog out, (The Haps With Herb.) This guy possesses an incredible amount of common sense, and his posts are spot on. Do yourself a kindness and visit.

The following chapter finds our boys in the school cafeteria, and for the first time, we meet Mikey’s sworn enemy, Mark, the school bully. The school cafeteria resembles the United Nations in many ways, albeit at a grade school level. Unspoken guidelines and carved-in-stone protocols were strictly enforced. As you read, see if you can recall what those rules were.

Photo by samer daboul on Pexels.com

Chapter 2

                                   The good, the bad, and the bully

The bus finally rattles into the school parking lot and comes to a stop with a groan and a jerk. The jocks in the rear are first to stand and slither to the front. There is a strict order when getting off the bus as well, so we stand eyes to the floor and wait our turn.

Jumping into the aisle at the wrong time might find you gettin’ knocked back to your seat flat on your back. The resultin’ laughter and finger-pointing were sure to follow you around the rest of the day.

As they make their processional, Patrick, the head of the football team, blurts out, “Does anybody smell smoke? I smell smoke.” Big David doesn’t lift his eyes, no point in it. A loud round of laughter goes through the group.

Once the bullies had passed, the big lug just looked up with that simple smile, just as he always does. Lookin’ over at us, he shrugs his shoulders and remarks, “Don’t bother me none.”

Chucky shook his head in disgust. When are you gonna do somethin’ about that jerk, David?”

“Ahh, he don’t mean nothin’ by it. besides, he’s just tryin’ to look good fer the girls. I’m already purdy enough as it is. Reckon I got no reason to impress nobody else.” He nudged Chucky a bit, proud of his comment.

Finally, time for us to get off; Chucky caught Stick starin’ at one of the cheerleaders as she walked by. He threw Stick a smack to the back of the head. Let’s go, dipstick.”

“Hey, that hurt dude.”

“It’ll hurt a lot more if Patrick catches you doin’ that, now let’s go.” We walked down the bus steps and made our way through the crowd to the lunchroom.

As soon as we open the door, the smell of cinnamon soaks into my nose. I yelled to the other guys. Cool! cinnamon toast! I loves me some cinnamon toast.’ Specially if it’s got lots a sugar.”

“I hate it,” snaps Stick, “Burns my throat. you can have mine.” Then, realizin’ what he had just said, “No, wait, if they got raisin-bran, I keep the toast. I hate raisin-bran even more than cinnamon, looks like I got a bowl full of dead bugs or mouse turds.”

While we were gettin’ our trays, Chucky nudged my shoulder, “Looks like you’re eatin’ two cereals man. Look, Raisin Bran.”

“Great,” I snorted in disgust, “Looks like it’s gonna be one heck of a day.”

On each tray, the lunch lady placed a small box of cereal (the kind that you split down the side, making the box a leaky and hard-to-use bowl). They make a mess, and you cain’t ever seem to get all the cereal outta the corners, followed by a slice of warm, buttery cinnamon toast.

When you get to the end of the line, you gotta get past Mrs. Tuttle. he controls the milk, the juice, the ice cream, the weather, well, everything. Of course, you only got juice or two milks if you were one of the rich kids; orange juice and extra milks cost an extra fifteen cents, so none of us ever got any.

Now let’s talk for a bit about the queen of the lunchroom.

Mrs. Tuttle.

Nobody knows for sure how old she is, but she’s old, ancient old. When the good Lord made the earth, she was there, lookin’ over his shoulder, her tall, blue, bee-hive hairdo blowin’ in the breeze. her gaze makin’ sure He didn’t get any extra milks or juice. On the sixth day, I’m certain the Lord turned to her and asked, “Whatcha think about this, Mrs. Tuttle?”

“Well…” she replied. It’s OK, I reckon…You can take tomorrow off.”

But that’s jest my opinion.

Her narrow eyes hide behind a pair of black “cat’s-eye” glasses. her hand-drawn, bright red, pencil-thin lips rarely spoke a word and never ever, I mean, ever, smiled. She sits on an old wooden chair like a queen on her throne.

She possesses absolute power over anything and anyone within the lunchroom walls. She don’t care who you are, ballplayer, cheerleader, nerd, rich or poor; it don’t matter to her.

Her scepter is a worn black pen held tight in her gnarled hand. Below that gnarled hand sits an old ledger. That ledger contains the complete life history of every student that’s ever gone to this school. I swear she’s gotta have my Papaw’s name in there somewhere. Nothing, and I mean nothing, gets past her. The free lunch program allows us one milk, a second cost ten cents. he makes sure we get only what we are entitled to before looking up our name and scratching it down in that worn ol’ book.

The milk and juice cooler sits to her left, and to her right sits the ice cream freezer. Access to either one is granted with the wave of her hand, and denial by a single finger sayin’, “No.”

Once we passed inspection and our names were scratched down for all eternity, Chucky went off to find us a lonely corner so’s we could eat in peace.

Big David made sure we all stopped and bowed our heads as he asked the blessing.

I reached over to Stick’s tray, grabbing my extra cereal and milk.

“Wait, Wait, Wait, dude! said ‘cereal,’ not cereal and milk.”

“Aww, come on, dude,” I pleaded, “Everybody knows cereal comes with milk.”

“No way man! That milk belongs to yours truly.” He snapped the carton from my hand and gave the edge a quick lick to mark it as his own.

“You’re just nasty,” I sneered. How am I supposed to eat cereal without milk?”

“You got milk,” he said, “Use it.”

“But there’s not enough.”

“Not my problem, Tonto.” He took a big gulp of milk and whipped the mustache off his lip. A big, “Aah,” followed, just to rub it in.

David gave a deep snicker as he bit into his toast. He looked up, bread hanging from his gaping mouth. You guys are crazy,” he said, “Just plain ol’ crazy.”

Chucky shushed everybody, “Don’t look now, but Mark just walked in.”

We all stopped what we were doing and turned around.

“Hey, I said don’t look, not turn around and stare.”

There he was, my mortal enemy, my worst nightmare, my one, and only nemesis. An absolute giant by fifth grade standards, or any standard as far as we were concerned. At least 150 pounds of muscle and mean. His blonde hair was cut in a flat top so level you could build a house on it. He wore a varsity jacket even though he was only in fifth grade. We don’t know where he got it, and it didn’t matter. Besides, nobody was brave enough to ask him anyways.

As usual, his cronies surrounded him like he was the President. A pitiful lot, all of ’em, clambering around, bending to his every whim. He took whatever place in line that he wanted, pushin’ the less fortunate aside, slowin’ down only when he came to the Tuttle. He had to stop there.

Other kids vacated wherever he and his posse decided to sit. Stayin’ put was tantamount to suicide. The best one could hope for was losin’ part of your meal. The worst, well, made even the biggest kid shudder.

David still had the toast hanging from his mouth. Whatcha gonna do about him, friend?”

“Stay away,” I replied. If I do what he wants, and Papaw finds out, the ol’ man’s gonna kill me, maybe even worse. Like the ol’ sayin’ goes, ‘there’s worst things in life than dyin’.’ If I don’t get it for him, then he’s the one that’ll kill me; either way, I’m a dead man walkin’.”

“I’d get it if I were you,” said Stick. Your ol’ man ain’t gonna miss that much anyways, and besides, you wouldn’t be scared if you was gettin’ it for one of us now, would ya?”

“That’s different, Stick, none of you guys would ask me. And even if you did, do you think I’m afraid of a beanpole like you?”

David snorted, and half choked on cinnamon. ” Looks like he told you what fer.”

Stick smirked and made a face.

After a few more minutes of small talk, the bell rang. I swallowed what was left of my now soggy cereal and stuffed the other box in my coat pocket. It was time to take my tray to the wash window.

The washroom is a clamor of activity and the gossip center of the lunchroom. The loud clinkin’ of cups and trays bounced about the small space. Steam spewed from shiny steel washers as baskets of clean trays slid along the rollers. Students with bright white aprons and paper hats were busy scrapin’ food from trays before loadin’ them in baskets and shovin’ them into the monster’s mouth. Others waited at the far end, grabbin’ the hot baskets as they emerged, then stackin’ them clean and steamin’ in neat stacks, ready for the lunch crowd.

“When’s your turn?”

“What?” The question startled me.

“The warsh room. When’s your turn?”

I looked back; there was big David, dumping his tray of bread crust.

“Oh, I dunno, pretty soon I reckon. Burton ain’t told me when yet. A solid week cleanin’ every dirty dish in the building. I cain’t wait, whoop, whoop.”

A big hand landed solidly on my back and hurt a bit.

“Look on the bright side friend; at least ye git to stay away from ol’ Mark fer a few days.” He shrugged his shoulders and turned to walk out. I swear I saw some teeth behind that lazy smile.

By the time David and I made it to class, Chucky and Stick were already in their seats. One thing about David, he don’t hurry much. The bell rang the very second we slid through the door.

“Well, well, well. Saved by the bell once again, huh gentlemen?” It was Burton, “I swear you two cut it closer every day. I m gonna get you boys, sooner or later, just wait and see, I’m gonna get ya. Now get in your seats, can’t wait around all day now, can we?”

Mr. Burton is our fifth-grade teacher. He ain’t too bad as far as teachers go. Ma told me the two of them went to school together. even so, he still looks a heap older than Ma does. His curly brown hair and thick mustache seem to have a great deal of grey in ’em. He even blames that on us, says we’re to blame for every hair. I had hoped, see’n how he knew my Ma and all, that this year would be just a little easier. But it don’t appear to be workin’ out that way. I swear. I think he’s tryin’ to make it harder on me just because he used to be a little sweet on her.

His classroom is odd, really odd. It’s set up all backward. He’s got the desk sittin’ at the rear of the room. Now, you wanna talk about messing with yer head. He says this way he can keep an eye on everything we’re doing. It’s kinda creepy is what it is, you can feel him staring at the back of your head. It’s worse than having your Ma lookin’ over your shoulder while you’re takin’ a bath.

The chalkboard is still at the front; he keeps a tall stool sittin’ to the left side, just between the chalkboard and the door. That’s where he stays most of the time. He laughs a lot, and most days, he’s in a good mood. But, if someone ain’t done their homework, or somebody gets caught talkin’, then he gets quiet, and that’s when you know he’s mad.

This cat has the deadliest aim with a piece of chalk that you’ve ever seen. To make matters worse, his aim comes accompanied by a hair-trigger. The slightest whisper or chuckle has found many an unfortunate soul dead in the cross-hairs of an expertly placed throw.

He always aims for the head. I’ve never been hit, but Chucky and Stick seem to make a habit of it. Believe it or not, the chalk’s just a warning shot. They’s something far worse waitin’ for any doomed soul that don’t heed the chalk toss.

In his desk, hidden in the top center drawer, is where he keeps it. It’s legendary amongst kids of all ages, a literal “Excalibur” of discipline. A piece of oak about a foot and a half long and six inches wide. Along the business end of the board are carefully drilled holes, and for some un-Godly reason, signatures cover the entire length. He even went so far as to give the evil thing a name, “Ol’ Painless.”

He loves Ol’ Painless. He talks about her constantly. Sometimes I believe he expects her to answer. He even opens the desk drawer from time to time to have a make-believe conversation. The sight sends chills up our spines. Her reputation floats over the classroom like a storm cloud. Gettin’ hit by the chalk is just the thunder before the strike. And, like thunder, the clap sends all within earshot runnin’ for cover.

He only goes back to his desk after he’s taken rollcall, laid out the lesson plans, and performed whatever manner of small-talk he felt necessary. That small talk invariably turns to football or basketball or some other useless nonsense.

Most of it’s back of the bus talk, so we pass the time makin’ faces, passin’ notes, or just tryin’ to get the other caught and in some manner of trouble.

But, after a few minutes, he makes his way back to his desk and sits there, scannin’ the room for the slightest infraction. That’s why it’s so hard to cheat, pass notes, throw anything, or just be normal; you get the picture.

Mark sits at the back of the room, right smack next to Mr. Burton’s desk. I’m sure it’s on purpose; they whisper back and forth like school kids, ’bout sports mostly, I reckon. Most times, I can’t make out the whispers and chuckles.

Aside from the gossip, and given mine and Mark’s history, I’m sure Burton put him in that particular spot for the sole purpose of staring a hole through the back of my head. Whatever the reason, there he was, and I can feel him givin’ me the stink-eye.

So…there it is what do you think? If you liked it, then hit a button or two. If there was something missing, please let me know. Comments with any and all advice are greatly appreciated.

As always, We understand time is precious, and we are honored you chose to spend a bit of it with us. Thank You and God Bless you.

The Tin Cup Clan

The Most Important Meal of the Day

How many remember fifth grade? More importantly; how many remember the lunch room? Most don’t understand the politics, social exchange and class warfare that transpired there. So…for just a bit, experience the “lunch-room” through the eyes of the Tin Cup Clan. This is just a small excerpt from Chapter Eight, I hope you can get a little “feel” for the boys and maybe even catch a faint hint of frying sausage and burnt toast.

Excerpt from Chapter 8 “Was She Flirtin’ and Best Laid Plans”

Whatever conversations or business transactions that were taking place were put on hold for the time being. A far more important matter was at hand. Breakfast. 

The opening of the lunch-room door was held with nearly as much high spirited anticipation as, well… Christmas morning. This morning the planets were obviously in perfect alignment and Madam Karma was apparently in an extraordinary mood. 

Because when we opened that door… the air hung heavy with the wonderful soothing aroma of sausage, eggs, and toast. It had to be a sign straight from the all-mighty himself. Maybe, just maybe, things were finally going my way. 

We stood just inside the doorway, frozen in our tracks. Each of us staring at the other three. I didn’t want to take any chances, blurting out “that’s it no trades” as quickly as possible. 

Big David’s eyes narrowed into thin slits. He turned his head looking down at Stick with a look that could kill. 

That’s fine by me friend. How about you Stick? 

Stick looked up, swallowing the lump growing in his throat. What are you lookin’ at me for? I ain’t done nothin.’ 

Big Dave never broke his stare, “Just am friend that’s all, just am.” 

Before us lay a veritable smorgasbord, the sight of steaming pans full of scrambled eggs, stacks of sausage, and hot biscuits made our mouths water. The four of us gazed at the food like kids in a candy store window as hair-netted lunch ladies filled our trays. 

Sure does look good, don’t it friend? 

Chucky looked up at David, you do realize, those are just powdered eggs don’t ya? They ain’t real, they just add water to ‘em and fry ‘em up, that’s all. 

Well, they’s’ allot of stuff that’s good when you add water to it, argued big Dave. You ain’t forgot ‘bout Tang, have ye? And don’t fergit ‘bout Ovaltine.  

Mark and his cronies were ahead of us in line. We watched in disgust as he and his buddies flirted with the lunch ladies. Grinning under their hairnets as they piled the boy’s trays high with double portions. Our blood boiled as we watched them buy extra milks and juice when they reached Mrs. Tuttle. I thought about it for a second. 

Ya-know… I’m gonna do that one of these days. 

Do what? Asked Stick. 

I’m gonna git it all, milks, orange juice, extra food, all of it. For the four of us, just like the jocks. 

Oh… that… sure said Stick, I cain’t wait. He looked over at Chucky while rolling his eyes. 

Hey! I snapped; I saw that. 

Chucky snickered. What-cha gonna do, start boot-leggin’ at school or somethin’? Some rich uncle about to get out of the poorhouse. 

I just might do that… yep, never can tell, I just might. 

Now it’s your turn, if you like the story, tell a friend, tell your Ma, Pa, tell an enemy, just tell somebody. Don’t forget to Like, Follow, and Comment. Until next week…Thank You for your time. The Tin Cup Clan. God Bless.

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