By Marcus Turner
The bullet ants were in the bamboo gloves before the drums began.
Behind his face paint, the boy was stoic.
His mother and father were proud, for now.
After slipping on the gloves, for a moment he allowed himself a naive thought—they might not bite. A child’s hopeless dream. The painful reality crashed in waves so incessant, they became a melody.
He almost forgot the man he was meant to become.
The gathered tribe stared. Racked by the jungle’s strongest sting, the boy turned convulsions into rhythmic rocks.
Soon he was dancing, stomping his boyhood coil down to the dirt.
This is a fine visual piece. Kudos.
Great job. Visual and visceral. ??
Hello Marcus,
Terse, taut, teriffic!!
Great story, Marcus.
When I was a kid I hadn’t noticed the wasp that crawled into my baseball mit. It hit like lightning. I danced too.
Scott
🙁
Poetic.
Painful and powerful
I felt this!
That poor boy!!!!!!!
Beautifully crafted. Loved it.
Great initiation story and loved the ending.
Thanks everyone for the kind words, I really enjoyed the format.
Terrific. Very powerful and I can feel every moment. Thank you