Was a short walk. 

Dangerous, of course,

In the way that kids left to their own devices tend to make everything that little bit more dangerous,

And the kids that lived down by me

Only had their own devices. 

Rocks. 

Clubs. 

Whatever sharp or heavy bit they could find. 

And you know what?

All boys. 

Like some 70s film about British delinquency

The girls stood by watching, hair pasted flat to their scalps, tied so tight their hairlines receded,

Wanting to know which of the grunting, thick-skulled geeks would play king today. 

As we passed, the boys would pelt us with pebbles. 

One time they hit my mate’s girlfriend

And I lost my shit, chased them down, 

Caught a collar as they fled and pulled him back.

His head hit the floor with a sickening-

Blanched. I picked up the fallen boy’s club as they asked,

Begged to know why, and I failed to answer,

Forgetting the dozens of rock welts on my skin,

The bleeding girl twenty meters away standing with her boyfriend and my other quiet friends. 

The kid’s dad had a shotgun. 

I backed away slowly. 

The boy woke up and started crying.