The Brute

Last year for Christmas I was flat broke and couldn't even begin to imagine how to afford presents for everyone.  I racked my brain and finally decided that since I had been working on a children's story, it might be fun to turn it into a book.  I asked a friend of mine to do the illustrations so that I could put it together and give it as a gift to my family.

The story is about a pint-sized bully who watches the mean words he says come to life and physically hurt people.  When I wrote it, it first came out as a poem.  Later I restructured it into more of a manuscript format, but I kept the rhyme.  I think it makes it less scary for little kids.

Sometimes it's good to change things up a bit, so this week in honor of the holiday season I decided to post an excerpt of The Brute here each day.  Illustrations by the fabulous Angela Springer.

The Brute

The Brute was a bully who stood up to his name. He stood only three feet but there was something untamed in the way that he spoke and how he made people feel. He chewed them up, spit them out, everyone was a meal.

He tormented his classmates with bellows and booms. He snuck up behind them, crouching in rooms. And the boys and girls trembled for they knew what came next. Each word The Brute spoke took the shape of a hex.

Susan ran crying when he said her thighs thundered. He called Walter four-eyes and laughed at his blunders.

Poor Josie’s arm hairs were thick like a sweater. The Brute even told Evan that Clare liked Jake better. The Brute had no friends so the words lifted his spirits. The meaner he was the less he had to hear it from anyone who had the gumption to tease or turn up their noses or tickle his knees. So he went alone to recess each day, scanning the yard for the weak and the strays.

Now one afternoon played out a fine scene. The Brute’s lunch had settled. He was full of baked beans. The sun was half-hidden, clouds lined up for miles. A chill thinned the air, his lips curled to a smile.

“Play time,” called The Brute. “Who wants to play?”

But nobody answered. They all ran away, except for one girl who sat alone on a swing. She had headphones on. She had started to sing. In no time at all The Brute closed on his prey. He crept up behind her. Too late she yelped, “Hey!”

He took her music. She took it right back. They squared off with each other. He prepared his attack:

“You sound like a sick cow. You’re hurting my ears.”

Bull’s-eye for The Brute. The words brought her to tears. But the girl was not finished. She knew what to do.

“Miss Wilson!” she cried, and between each boo hoo she told the teacher The Brute’s terrible words.

“That’s it!” said Miss Wilson. “I can’t believe what I’ve heard. You won’t have any friends if you keep up this way,”

The teacher warned The Brute, “You’ll regret this one day.”

Instead The Brute sneered and made public a vow:  “I’d rather be alone. I don’t care anyhow.”

She marched The Brute to a bench. On the sidelines he sat. He curled his hands into fists. On the bench he lay flat. He glared up at the sky and swore things dark as night until it suddenly seemed someone turned out the light.