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Meet Me at the Gate

Meet Me at the Gate FICTION Marshall Myers THE STUCCO SCHOOLHOUSE NESTLED BETWEEN a sharp bluff and the Ohio River. A ribbon of smoke curled skyward from the chimney, drifting finally into the cold October air. Children ran here and there in games of tag and softball. Screams of delight--and even some of pain--broke into the air. Behind the building itself, the younger boys played a game of dodge ball, one person after another leaping out of the way of a sizzling volleyball thrown with both malicious intent and innocent fun. The boy in the center was especially small, looking almost too young to be among the other youngsters who towered above him. He knew it was his turn, and he had to endure the ball's sting for a time until he was agile enough to step out of the path of the ball. To him, it was a test of patience. That's all. He felt the way he did when his father spanked him. He knew the rage in his father's eyes for something he had done or not done, and he knew he must endure the shame or hurt of yet another whipping. He had learned that if he cried immediately, http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Appalachian Review University of North Carolina Press

Meet Me at the Gate

Myers, Marshall.
Appalachian Review , Volume 30 (1) – Jan 8, 2002
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Publisher
University of North Carolina Press
Copyright
Copyright © Berea College
ISSN
1940-5081
Publisher site
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Abstract

FICTION Marshall Myers THE STUCCO SCHOOLHOUSE NESTLED BETWEEN a sharp bluff and the Ohio River. A ribbon of smoke curled skyward from the chimney, drifting finally into the cold October air. Children ran here and there in games of tag and softball. Screams of delight--and even some of pain--broke into the air. Behind the building itself, the younger boys played a game of dodge ball, one person after another leaping out of the way of a sizzling volleyball thrown with both malicious intent and innocent fun. The boy in the center was especially small, looking almost too young to be among the other youngsters who towered above him. He knew it was his turn, and he had to endure the ball's sting for a time until he was agile enough to step out of the path of the ball. To him, it was a test of patience. That's all. He felt the way he did when his father spanked him. He knew the rage in his father's eyes for something he had done or not done, and he knew he must endure the shame or hurt of yet another whipping. He had learned that if he cried immediately,

Journal

Appalachian Review – University of North Carolina Press

Published: Jan 8, 2002

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