story i wrote:P

this is very different from my usual homoerotic military content but i wanted 2 share a story i made:D

im very open 2 answering questions abt it or any takeaways 😁😁😁 I LOVE WRITING!!!!!!!!!!

When I was young, I was a part of a Christian Youth summer camp. My brothers, boy scouts. 

As the youngest, weakest, and ‘most weird’ as put by my three older brothers, boy scouts was something for bigger, meaner, cooler kids. All of which I was none. 

They said not even cub scouts wanted me.

Our camp consisted of twelve boys and four counselors, and every day we would have different activities to bring us closer to God. We’d go home Friday and come back Sunday to continue into next week.

I was a silent kid and kept to myself, so making friends was difficult. By the first Tuesday, I was convinced I wasn’t going to have a friend for the entire summer. By Wednesday, a new kid arrived. My first camp friend. 

His hair was dark and short, frizzy like freshly smoked charcoal, and he was small and scrawny like me, constantly clenching his fists, his teeth, his shoulders – a battlefield in his eyes. Like a mortar ready to explode, a certain intensity that unsettled everyone. Standing next to one of the counselors, they had to bend their knees to even touch his shoulder and introduce him.

The only open spots to sit were next to me. At the cabin, at the cafeteria, at the campfire. And, naturally, he took them. He talked, I nodded, and that was the extent.

He always gave me insight. Things his dad would tell him. About life, money, women, and drive. How to be a real man. He said that the only reason he was here was because his mom overheard him repeating after his old man and wanted to straighten him out. His dad told him women don't know anything, anyway.

Rarely would he participate in any of the camp activities – singing, prayer stories, testimony nights… He would just watch me. But I didn’t mind. I liked performing for him. And I liked knowing that he was watching.

One thing he seemed to really like was the creek. One of our activities was painting the forbidden apple on stones and washing them in the river as a metaphor for baptism. He threw his at some kid’s head, leapt into the creek – clothes and all, – splashed others further down the bank, pushed a kid in, and ended the activity early for the rest of us with a communal trip to the showers. Everyone was upset, but the bright, satisfied smile on his face was something I’d never seen before. My heart pounded.

After that, we weren't supposed to go near the creek.

After cabin inspections, he would sneak me out to the creek at night. No one but us. He was pink at the idea of it, and I guess I was too. I couldn’t stop smiling. We caught fireflies, paddled in our pajamas, and tried to start a fire with what little kindling and knowledge we had. We were our own men. Survivalists. Soldiers. Unbroken by the challenges of life. 

That weekend off, I thought about him a lot.

The next week, he seemed off. The counselors seemed to hover. He was more tense. So much so that he would snap at me. Pull my hair, hit me, push me. I didn’t know what for. But my chest always went so tight in a way that didn’t make sense, like I’d done something wrong. I don’t think I’d ever been hurt like that – no bruises or anything to show for it. But I think I knew, deep down, he was struggling. So I stayed. I wanted to.

One day, instead of going to prayer, he pulled me on a walk out in the woods. A very long walk. To the creek. After a quick look around to check we weren’t being followed, he sat down. And I sat with him. In silence. I listened to the birds, the breeze flowing through trees, the gentle rush of water, and his exerted breathing as he gathered himself. I inched closer. 

For the first time, he was quiet. He didn’t want to talk. Shifty-eyed, scratching at his arm and grinding his molars, kicking his heel back into the log we sat on, we were there for a while. Through a scowly look, far away from me, he told me what was going on. His mom found a new boyfriend, he said, and his dad wasn’t going to be there anymore.

He seemed really choked up about it. Having a step-dad. So I compared him to Joseph of Nazareth – Jesus’ step-dad. He compared him to King Herod – Jesus’ assailant.

We didn’t mention it again. That was it. 

For the rest of the week, he was almost as quiet as me. We started to pull pranks together. Each one more ambitious, more cruel, than the last. Bugs in sheets, breaking windows with stones, formulating a lost camper scare, spreading lies, terrorizing the other campers and counselors alike with physical altercations. Then he moved to targeting the counselors specifically. The ones who got too close. Ripping up their paperwork, forging signatures, stealing cards and wallets and keys. Anything we could get our hands on, we threw it out into the mud or the creek… But I got to see his smile again, even if I felt God’s disapproval.

The head counselor caught him after that, fishing his muddy wallet out of the water. He said they'd talk later. In that quiet sort of voice adults do when they don't want to scare you. But when he came back to me, looking away, hands buried in his pockets, I could tell he was.

By Friday, the counselors were ecstatic to have him gone. By Friday, I was worried. I couldn’t get him off my mind. I couldn’t get my hands to stop shaking.

His dad said that real men don’t pray, but I prayed for him every day.

That returning Sunday, he wasn’t there. Nor the following Monday. I was worried sick, and I could hardly breathe. I didn’t get out of bed until I was dragged out by the counselors, sheets and all. During every activity, I would cry. Through the songs. The prayers. The downtime. I think it was guilt from everything I’d done the prior week, like God was keeping him away. It was absolutely soul crushing. I didn't even want to visit the creek.

On Tuesday, he finally came back, and I was so happy I cried. He let me hug him, something I prayed about doing, so I knew God was watching. He was quiet again, but I didn’t mind. It was the most chatty I’d ever been. Like we’d switched spots. I was frenzied.

On Wednesday, I took him down to the creek. Sitting on the very same log, I kicked with my heel, I scratched at my arm and I ground my molars. And finally, I told him what was going on.

I pray about you, I said, and I like you a lot.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t even look at me.

I think that was the final straw for him.

He didn’t come on Thursday, nor did he come the following week. I never saw him again, after that.

The camp spanned two months, which, as a kid, was practically forever. But when it was over, I found myself wishing it was longer. Wishing I had just one more week. One more day.