The Stick

HITTING STICK





  As a kid I would go for walks in the forest down the road from our house. Not for the beauty of the landscape, but for the mischief I could get up to.

  One activity I always enjoyed in the forest was to rip branches from trees and then swish them through the air. Most of these swish sticks would only last a few hours before breaking or losing its flexibility. As a kid one of your quests was to find the perfect one.

  And one time I found the perfect stick. It was bendy enough to swish the air and strong enough not to break. It was a dream stick.

  I defrocked it of its leaves and skinned it of its bark. I swished it through the air for hours and when I grew bored of that, I used it to slice off thinner branches from lesser trees and hack through weak bushes.

  I grew found of it, and with a cap full of coke cola I christened it Sticky.



  For the next two weeks I spent hour’s everyday running through the forest swishing and slicing through everything I could cut through.



  One morning I went to take Sticky from my drawer, and to my shock and horror he was gone. I searched all over my room and retraced all my steps but could not find him.

  I looked all over my house, the forest and the road, but still nothing.



  Two days passed and nothing. I contemplated placing missing person flyers on poles, but I didn’t need to.



  The next time I saw Sticky I was busy at work, bullying my younger sister and brother. This time I was conducting an experiment. It consisted of force-feeding worms’ to my brother and sister to see how many they could eat before they’d vomit.

  I was too engrossed in my activity to see my father coming out into the garden. I didn’t notice him until I was immersed in the darkness his shadow cast over me.

  I looked up at this big angry man and to my horror I saw Sticky in his hand.

  He gave me six of the stingy best across my bare short pants legs and sent me to my room.

  The whipping hurt, but not as much as the betrayal of Sticky.

  Sticky had crossed over to the dark side.



  I could picture the little Judas betraying me to my parents -



-Pssst! What are you two up to?

-Nothing, we’re just having a cup of tea while watching TV.

-Good, good. Tea is good. But do you know what isn’t good?

-What?

-Old Mister Wooden spoon. You have to admit, he’s not looking the May West, is he? He’s old and the strength and flexibility is gone from him.

-Come to mention it, the kids screams don’t reach the pitch they used to reach.

-Exactly. Why not try me out? I’m young, flexible and strong. Why not try me on your eldest?

-Well, he hasn’t done anything bold lately.

-A quick look out into the garden will change your mind on that matter.



  The two weeks of joy and happiness were to be dulled out by two years of pain and suffering.

  Occasionally over the next two year I would look out of my bedroom window and see my Father and Sticky playing ball or going for a walk together. Sometimes my dad would catch me and he would either send me a scolding look or a jeering smile. 



  One night I got up from bed to go to the toilet. I walked past the living room and in there I saw a diminishing fire and there in my old chair, smoking a pipe, was old sticky.

  Ninja like I snuck in reached over the chair and grabbed him by the head.

  I finally got to ask him why he betrayed me. He said I was boring and he liked the feel of a young boy’s skin against his. I told him he was a Judas; he said I cried like a girl.

  In a rage I threw him into the fire. It gave me great joy to see him go up in flames. I laughed a quiet manic laugh as I watched my own personal Judas burning. And that night I went to sleep with a smile on my face.



  My father went ballistic the next day. He said he knew I had done something with him. Of course I denied this.

  I forged a letter from Sticky saying he had grown tired of life in our house and was running off with the Irish relay team.

  My father asked did I write the letter. I lied saying Sticky had asked for a loan of pen and paper the previous day. My father gave me a strange look.

  Many other sticks came, were used and broke, but none would take the place of Sticky for my father or me.