Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one’s courage.—Anais Nin
Barry Johnson was the biggest, meanest kid in school, and would gladly kick the shit out of any asshole that thought otherwise.
Little Horace stepped out of his elementary school’s side entrance onto the hot sandy playground, and saw that a group of kids had formed a semi-circle around Johnson. He was the center of attention, as well he should have been. For Johnson, grinning like a lunatic—his heavy black boot hovering high in the air above something on the ground—was getting ready to stomp the bejeezus out of whatever it was that was down there.
Johnson brought his boot down sharply towards what Horace could now clearly see was a tiny baby bird—lost and fragile, looking for its mother. Becky Smiley screamed and twisted away, her hands covering her face. Although she could not bear to watch what was about to happen, everyone else gawked in helpless, silent fascination.
A split second before he crushed the bird, Johnson redirected his foot to the side, missing it by a hair. There was an audible intake of breath from Johnson’s audience. He paused and laughed, glaring at everyone—a star in the spotlight.
Then he got ready to do it again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
Each new thrust of the foot was as sickening to watch as the previous one, for nobody knew for sure if this time would be the one when the bird would finally, shockingly be crushed by the terrorist.
His black boot came down for the fourth—and final—time. There was a blur of a movement from the left, and Johnson was knocked flat on his ass. Becky Smiley screamed once more, and this time started to cry.
If the group had been in shock before, they were doubly dazed now. For as the dust settled, they stared in amazement as a trembling Horace stood up, walked over to the bird, picked it up, and began to carry it away. Away from the group, and away from Johnson.
