Swing of DeathA Story by Judas Hammer Sometimes fun is scary....... Swing Of Death I had never
seen 'the swing', just heard about its legendary existence. Stories
flowing from, the lips of my two younger, male siblings. Tales of great heights
reached, as childish arms almost touched the sky, while gleeful laughter shot
from young throats. These little myths angered me, as the green demon of
jealousy filled my under nourished bowels. Why had I been excluded? Was it
my violent nature? Was it my hyperactivity, which was only under temporary
control by the Feingold diet? I will one day hunt down the designer of this
nutritional Iron maiden and put them in a figure four-leg lock in the middle of
a McDonalds. I tried to
piece together the location. They both weren't forthcoming but instead kept the
destination secret like some ancient tomb. The only way to know was to follow
them to the Dredge. I knew it was on the trail we used to walk, with my father
on special occasions. It was a long path up on top of the hilly dirt mounds of
the Dredge. My father explained that boats digging out the floor or the
Delaware River and depositing it on the Jersey side formed those mounds of
ground. It seemed
as if every state was depositing their refuse on our side of the boarder, but
this time it created something beautiful. On cloudy days we strolled along the
trail staring at those dusty, November skies, when the lazy sun hid behind
winter. The three of us walked with quick kid strides attempting to keep up our
own Daniel Boone, on occasion peeking over the side. It was as if we were on
the top of Everest peering into the steep, cloud filled valley below. A child's eyes! The
high point was the whirlpool created by a drainpipe on the Riverside. Through a
boys, wind splashed corneas it seemed like the gates to Atlantis and could suck
a person to a watery death, never to be seen again, but by whales and whatever
monsters of the river rightfully scavenged the bottom. I glanced over
the side, half intrigued and the other half of men filled with fear and dismay.
What if the young explorer falls over the side? What if the whirlpool gets
him? Nothing can save him!
My brethren left the house and I tailed behind them. They didn't take
the usual way through the Dredge but a round about way that ran beside Second
Street. At the end of Second Street, was a make shirt baseball field, which cut
straight into the other half of the Dredge, by Gunthers the haunted house. I had never explored
the evil, dark dwelling but my brothers and the Shaffer boys had been in and out
like wily bats. My devil fearing self would never break the borders of the
doorway. I only guessed the interior's decor from the sidelines, fearful to
lose my life to some violent ghosts or demonic curse. I crept by
Günter’s, weaving through the high grass and across a small, barren lot with
nothing but beer bottles and trash littering the emptiness. My ears picked up a
familiar noise: laughter. I visualized my brothers chuckling, as they swung
back and forth like small, drunk monkeys. I followed the sound and came upon a
small ragtag group in a clearing. I noticed my brothers and when they
recognized me their face dropped like smooth vases from slick, trembling, wet
fingers. The
swing itself consisted of an extra, thick rope, with a large knot at the bottom
for footing and attached to the muscular, extended branch of a monster tree. A
group of young, quizzical, unfamiliar faces were worshipping the Tree beast by
the rope ritual. I watched how the kids got onto the swing; due to the fact it
was oddly situated. Part of the swing touched the hill and the other half went
off into heights of twenty to thirty feet off the ground. At each time, there
was about four to five clutching on the oversized string for life.
I scaled the side of the hill, beastlike on all fours: the dirt was
sandy and soft against my palms. I waited for my turn still study the
technique. The object was to jump on the swing, while it was in perpetual
motion: there was no stopping. It swung back and forth like a pendulum of a
gigantic clock. The kind seen in the old Bugs Bunny cartoons that the bad
character always runs into and becomes some sort of clock character hybrid. As
it went from air to dirt, passengers jumped on and off in a constant rotation of
sugar fuel, childhood madness. It was
my turn and all eyes were upon me, being the new comer to the scene. I felt
comfortable because my brothers were already on the swing. I didn't hesitate
and got a running start then grabbed onto the swing. The rope was rough and
strong. The bodies of my brothers and some other boys pressed against me in an
airborne huddle. The first time the swing went to the high side it seemed a
mile off the ground and immediate death for the unlucky one that fell off. I was
relieved when we came back. I
witnessed too much happiness and joy on this ride. My youngest brother laughed like a madman forgetting about
his problems. The hyperactivity posed me, as I found myself trying to cast him
off the side. His giggling turned to the gnashing of teeth. His gripped
tightened and face froze. I started to
push and knee him, like an evil pirate boarding the Port side of a ship. It
wasn't until a jolt knocked me back into reality, as I almost fell off myself.
I regained balance and tossed myself off into the soft, quilt like dirt. I
brushed myself off and headed home. The
swinging life was not for me. I rather liked my feet on the ground, so they
could keep the Swing of Death. I would find something else to do. I wasn't the
type of pre teen male who lusted for bruises, mud and snakes. I drew cartoons,
read National Geographic’s and told jokes into tape recorders. On another
occasion, we did return with the Shaffer boys, our neighbor's grandson. Allen was the
craziest kid I had ever known. He spelled doom and destruction on the Swing of
Despair. His coal colored hair blew in the wind, as his jackal like howl filled
the atmosphere. He destroyed all who attempted to jump on the swing with him,
thrust creating the phrase: Swing of Death. We almost all died
that day, as our friend the young Charles Mason tried to feed us to the ground
bellow. That was enough to make me go cold turkey forever. The whirlpool,
Günter’s and Swing of Death made it seem to me that the Dredge ate her young
and spit them out into river... © 2013 Judas HammerAuthor's Note
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Judas HammerThe City of Angeles, CAAboutI like to write, live in La and write and make short films. and more..Writing
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