Stories About Things and Stuff

By Ben Mariner

A Woodsman protecting his domain. A young boy's trials and tribulation in gym class. A candy coated maniac. Step into the demented mind of one of the most lovable authors in this or any generation. In Stories About Things and Stuff, Ben Mariner takes you on the roller coaster ride of his mind with a collection of short stories that range from fantasy to horror to just plain silly. Open this book if you dare.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ben Mariner
• Release date: Oct 27, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370126651

Ben Mariner

Ben Mariner is the award winning author of the Apocalypse Wow series, though all of those awards were self-presented. He has also written The Many Lives of Zane Montgomery which some people definitely read. When not writing, Ben can be found searching the globe for the lost city of Atlantis or attempting to break the record for most consecutive hours spent doing nothing in particular. He is an avid consumer of useless knowledge, a staunch supporter of not eating vegetables ever, and knows every single word to Will Smith’s 1997 album Big Willie Style. And, no, that’s not a joke.

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Preface

Several years ago, when I got really, really bored, I’d ask a friend to provide me with a person, place, or thing and I’d write a story that had to contain all of those elements in some way. It was more of a writing exercise to keep me and the ol’ idea factory running at full capacity on top of killing the boredom, but a lot of the stories that came out of this were quite entertaining. What you’re about to read is a collection of those stories, as well as a few super old ones I wrote for a creative writing course. Many of them are completely ridiculous in concept, but I was working with what I was given so cut me some slack.

If you enjoy any or all of these stories, you can find my full length novels on Amazon, but I’m not going to make any promises that they’re any less ridiculous. They’re just longer. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this tiny look into the way my mind works, and, if not, at least you didn’t have to pay money for it. Have fun and remember: support your favorite indie authors by reviewing their books and telling your friends.

Bombardment

Wednesday.

The most unholy day of the week.

Not only is it only half way through the week, but there are still two more days to get through to see the glorious light of Saturday morning where a kid like me can find solace in the Ninja Turtles and X-Men. Where I can eat a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and not have to worry about the always looming wedgies or purple nurples. Saturday was where it was at. But, like I said, that was still a few days away. First I had to deal with Wednesday.

Wednesday is Salisbury steak day in the cafeteria. Most kids love it, but I’ll never understand why. I think it tastes and chews like a rotten piece of leather smothered in bat mucus. On Wednesday’s, I envy the cold lunch kids. The kids whose parents were too cheap to let them buy their lunch. Any other day, my heart would go out to their starving, neglected souls. On Wednesdays, I wished I was one of them.

Neglected children and inedible steaks aside, there was one reason I dreaded the most misspelled day of the week more than any other. One reason why my entire childhood has been full of degradation and emotional pain. The one reason that I make an attempt to fake sick every Wednesday, every week. Wednesday was the day for bombardment.

The fluorescent lights glared off the gym floor. A violent blaze of the harsh synthetic light dangling high above my head. A murderous spotlight shining on the battlefield of 5th grade humiliation. This is my least favorite room in this God forsaken building.

Mr. Barnhart stood sentinel at the out-of-bounds line of the basketball court. A rusted, metallic whistle hung above his pit stained white polo shirt. He was wearing some sort of twisted perversion of shorts and sweat pants. They came down to mid-thigh, his pasty white legs hairy and unusually muscular. A pair of pristine white sneakers adorned his feet, covering a pair of tube socks pulled up to their tearing point. The only thing that could have made him a more quintessential gym teacher was a flat top. Unfortunately for him, he’d lost most of his hair by the time he was twenty-four, the rest to follow shortly thereafter.

His whistle let out a shrill cry and landed back in its trusty place on his chest. He patted his hand on it like it was a puppy and smiled. He always thought no one could see it, but I swear I’ve heard him call that damn thing Gladys before.

Alright, kids, you know what day it is, he screamed over the din of a medium-sized group of 5th graders, everyone line up on the blue line. Jimmy and Eric, you’re captains. Pick your teams.

We all lined up – some of us more reluctant than others – on the blue volleyball line. Jimmy Farthing and Eric Thompson stood out in front of us, perusing our ranks like witnesses picking out a criminal from a line-up.

Eric, Mr. Barnhart said, you get first pick.

Jennifer, Eric said, the words bursting out of his mouth before Mr. Barnhart could finish.

Normally, picking a girl first was a big faux pas at this age. At the 5th grade level, they were just inferior sportsmen. Once we hit Jr. High/High School, though, they’ll become genetically superior in every way. It’s sad to think we boys peak at such an early age. Eric and Jennifer were dating though, so the upper echelon of the 5th grade hierarchy turns the other cheek.

Mitchell, Jimmy called out.

Mitchell Tanner. James K. Polk Middle School’s top athlete. The first picked for everything. I heard he was making deals with the NBA for when he graduates high school. I hope that’s not true, and if it is, I hope he breaks his leg and has to be shot.

Danny.

Steve.

Robbie.

Sarah.

Of course Jimmy would pick Sarah Evans. There was a rumor circulating about them making out under the bleachers and Eric putting his hand up her shirt. I suppose the 5th grade is the best time to start being a ho.

Evan.

Nicole.

Gunner.

Ashley.

Joey.

Ed.

It’s down to the weird foreign kid and me. He smells like curry and looks like he hasn’t bathed in at least a week. What’s funny is, even though he looks like he should have flies buzzing around his head, he’ll still get picked before me. Compared to me, his aptitude at bombardment is vastly superior.

Otm.

Otm gives me a casual, but sympathetic glance and walks to Eric’s team. He’s really not a bad kid. If he understood a word of English other than ‘yes’ or ‘no’, we might even be friends.

No one bothers to even call my name. I lumber over to Jimmy’s team oozing with a lack of enthusiasm. I wonder if these kids will ever know what kind of emotional damage you take when you’re picked last.

Alright, you guys, Mr. Barnhart said after another quick shot of his whistle. Every time he says ‘you guys’ I get the distinct feeling that he wishes he were screaming ‘you maggots’ at us like a drill instructor berating a new group of recruits. Jimmy, your team gets that end. Eric you guys on the other.

Both teams split, finding their way to their designated ends of the gym. Some were more enthusiastic than others. Mitchell Tanner being the prime example.

Mr. Barnhart grabbed a large, misshapen linen sack stained with years of use. As he walked along the centerline of the court placing balls from the sack at almost perfect intervals from each other. Each ball was made out of foam, not inherently heavy enough to hurl at another human being unless, of course, you wrap them in a thin layer of latex or rubber or whatever it was they used. Perfect for leaving welts if thrown hard enough.

Mr. Barnhart walked back to the sidelines and stood with his arms akimbo. Each one of us stood at opposite ends of the gym, our hands pressed against the wall in anticipation.

On the whistle, he said in an overly theatrical tone, we begin.

An orgy of chaos erupted at the shrill cry of the whistle. The sound of thundering footsteps echoed off the walls like frightened cattle stampeding away from a gunshot in the middle of the night.

I’m not the fastest kid in the world; no one could argue that. Most of the time, I make it up to the line so slow the other kids have already gotten their hands on a ball and are poised and ready to let fly in my direction. To my surprise, I actually made it before someone else. The textured latex/rubber felt warm on my fingertips. I took aim and cocked back. Billy Tabernacle’s eyes grew wide when he saw the ball release, and land squarely in his chest. I think it was more shock at seeing me throw the ball than the fact that he was out. No one expected me to get anyone out. Ever. Not even me.

If memory serves, that’s the first time I’ve ever gotten someone out on purpose. One other time I got someone out but only because, in mid-air, my ball collided with another and the trajectory changed and nicked the kid to the left. It was a moral victory if nothing else. But this was new. It felt good to strike with determination and see the aftermath of shame and embarrassment. I felt a small amount of vindication.

The feeling was almost gone as fast as it came. I relished in my small victory just a bit too long. This wasn’t a battle. It was a war. Some unseen force urged me to duck just as a ball went sailing over my head. I could feel the hair on my head flutter in its wake. I hit the floor hard, a shockwave emanating through my body.

I looked back to see Gunner Etchison’s face was twisted with a bizarre hunger. The look of a predator that hadn’t eaten in three weeks and suddenly stumbled upon wounded prey. Someone passed him a ball. His mouth widened into a grin like a pedophile at Chuck E. Cheese. He side-armed the ball with all his might, clearly throwing for a kill. I blinked, and the ball was in my hands. I blinked again, and Eric Thompson was walking to the sidelines.

What the hell just happened?

I got back to my feet in a rush of adrenalin. Two more people had fallen by my hand. Their numbers were thinning, and I was finally a part of that. With a quick look around, I could see ours were dwindling as well. It was up to me to end this.

And I felt invincible.

I grabbed a nearby ball off the gym floor, another ball sailing over my head as I bent over. No matter, they couldn’t hit me even if they wanted to. I unleashed my full power on the side of Otm’s head, sending him to the floor. Take that you non-descript foreign bastard!

Much to my surprise, a cheer let out from the sidelines. My less fortunate teammates sitting in a neat line waiting to come back in were cheering me on. A tingle shot up my spine. I’ve never been cheered on. I really should catch a few to bring some of them back in…forget it.

This is my time. I’m going to prove myself. Not just to me, but to all of them. Especially Erin Henebry. She looks so good sitting on the gym floor in her Ghostbusters t-shirt. She was cheering me on too! Oh joyous rapture! Once I take these jerks down, we can finally be together, just like we were in the drawings in my notebooks.

It was two on four. Jessica Randall gave me a pleading look, but I shot back an emotionless one. To be honest, I didn’t know what to tell her. I’ve never made it this far. We were outnumbered and she was their first target. Unfortunate side effect of being a girl in a man’s war. I wonder if she’d listen to me if I told her that once her breasts develop completely, none of these guys would dare knock her out in hopes of getting to touch them.

I roll a nearby ball up on my foot and kick it up to myself not wanting to leave myself open for attack. Adam Hurwitz let fly at Jessica. She was too slow to dodge and took it on the hip. Fortunately, I took the opportunity to get him out as well. Three on one.

The cheers were rising higher, now from both