The Wall Game: a rewrite

Rovan had been stacking stones all day, but her wall was still only knee high at almost dinner time.  It extended from the west side of the house, where hostas were about to burst into purple flags, to the mailbox at road’s edge.  For every three stones Rovan added to the wall, she laid one aside for weapons.  She’d need this stockpile if—when—she was attacked.  It would be soon, she thought.  Her side of the home was already in deep shade.

Her brother Leroy was building his wall at the east side of the house where a white pine turned the grass orange with needles.  She wished she had the needles to throw, but he had that advantage because he was older.  “You’d better watch out!” he’d yelled in their last mad dash to the stone pile which waited to be spread down the hilly driveway.

The stones were heavier than snow, and Roven’s arms were tired.  But she kept at it. The game engrossed her: its raucous meetings, supply grabbing, and secrecy.  Last winter when snowflakes were the material at hand, building her wall was easier.  At 4-years old, she was learning engineering skills like the difference between building with snow and rock; like how to stabilize bigger stones on the bottom, because they don’t stick together like snow does.   She was also learning the thrill of war.

“Here I come ready or not!”  Leroy bellowed.

Rovan jerked herself up from wall building, and turned to grab smaller stones from her stash.  She had to attack.  She couldn’t hide because her wall wasn’t ready, and she wouldn’t run.  Not her.  Last winter, he won because he surprised her.  Unfair, but Rovan didn’t really care.  She giggled.

She saw him now, running toward her at his top speed.  Her throw fell short.  His didn’t.  She couldn’t block the blow with her chubby little arms.  She fell hard into the dark night.

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About the rewrite:  I accepted a challenge to write a short story inspired by one of my poems. The chosen poem (HERE) about inner walls and crying walls, is anti-wall and anti-war, and I thought my story was, too.  Not according to my readers!  It didn't work that way.  I hope it does now. 

Following two readers' advice, I tried to change the tone from endearing to ominous.  I added more foreshadowing.   Yet, I need some endearment to end in shock, right?  Also, I used 9 more words, and now exceed the required 313 words of Magaly's prompt.  

Does the theme come through?  Above is the revision and below is the original.  
(Comments from before 3/5/2019 are on the original story below.)  

In so many ways, we set our children up for violence.  Do you think we're the kind of animals who would discover it ourselves?  And here's more questions:  Should I alter the genders, of who is older and who throws the fatal stone?  What difference would that make in its meaning?

Source

The Wall Game (Take 1)

Rovan had been stacking stone all day, but her wall was still only knee high at almost dinner time.  It extended from the west side of the house, where hostas were about to burst into purple flags, to the mailbox at road’s edge.  For every three stones Rovan added to the wall, she laid one aside for weapons.  She’d need this stockpile if—when—she was attacked.  It would be soon, she thought.  Her side of the home was already in deep shade.

At this very moment her brother Leroy was building his wall at the east side of the house where a white pine turned the grass orange with needles.  She wished she had the needles to throw, but he had that advantage because he was older.  “You’d better watch out!” he’d yelled in their last mad dash to the stone pile which waited to be spread down the hilly driveway.

The game engrossed Rovan: its raucous meetings, supply grabbing, and secrecy.  She first played it last winter when snowflakes were the material at hand.  At 4-years old, she was learning engineering skills like the difference between building with snow and rock; like how to stabilize big ones on the bottom, because rocks don’t stick together like snow does. 

“Here I come ready or not!”  Leroy was loud enough to be heard for miles.  Rovan jerked herself up from the stones she was laying and turned to grab smaller stones in each hand, ready to attack.  She couldn’t hide because her wall wasn’t ready, and she wouldn’t run.  Not her.  He came before she was ready with snowballs, too.  Unfair, but Rovan didn’t really care.  She giggled.

She saw him now, running toward her at his top speed.  Her throw fell short.  His didn’t.  She wasn’t fast enough to block with her chubby little arms.  Leroy watched Rovan’s night fall.

#

For "Telling Tales with Magaly Guerrero: a Pantry of Prose, 1"

(I shudder at putting a short story--if it is one--on my poetry blog, but Magaly said 

I could write one, that I could take the inspiration from one of my own poems--and I did!  

If you wish to see the poem that inspired this story, look HERE.)

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright. 

© 2019 Susan L. Chast