Gravel under the Swings

This short story is available to read for free online.
You may also purchase downloadable versions for a minimum payment of $1.

cw: brief gore involving a child, death

__________________________________________________________

There’s still gravel under the swings at our elementary school, you know. Most playgrounds these days use wood chips, shredded tires, or those rubber pads to keep kids from hurting themselves. But not here. Still just some ground littered with stones.

Do you think any of those sharp little pebbles are the same ones we used to skin our knees on?

I think I was born on the swings. My first memories are my mom and I at the park, her pushing me on one of those baby swings that was basically just a bucket with leg holes. I think she was trying to rock me to sleep, but I loved it too much. I begged for a swingset at home, even though we didn’t have a yard. She made up for it by taking me to the park during the openings in her work schedule.

One fall day bright in my memory, after I graduated to a regular swing, Mom said she had a surprise and told me hold the chains tight. My doughy hands locked around them with newfound strength. She pulled the swing back, my legs dangling higher in the air. She asked if I was ready. I nodded.

“HERE COMES THE UNDERDOG!” she proclaimed, the last ‘O’ drawn out like a howl. Before the word completely left her mouth, Mom dug her feet into the wood chips and broke into a run, pushing me with her. I stuck my legs straight out on the upswing and felt her fingertips leave my back. Mom came barreling out from underneath me, barely avoiding the heels of my tennies. She turned back with a smile, but lost her balance and tumbled to the ground. We laughed until snot bubbled out of my nose.

We didn’t make memories like that at our apartment. That cramped second-floor unit was where we stayed, but the swings are where I lived. The whistle of air past my ears, that metallic smell of chains, the warmth of the sun-baked rubber when I sat down; that was my home.

Daytime playground trips were soon interrupted by kindergarten. The teacher assured me that when the bell rang, I’d get to play. It tolled, and I burst outside before the recess monitor had his high-viz vest on.

Can you imagine my disappointment when it was just a jungle gym and some old four-square courts with faded paint?

I swam through the kids spilling out of the door, back toward the nearest adult. I asked where the swings were, but he just smiled and shook his head. Too dangerous for kindergartners like me, he said. Wait until I was a big strong first-grader, he said.

How could Mom take me away from my home, and leave me swingless for so many hours? Why wouldn’t the recess monitor listen to my protests, apologize for the mix-up, and lead me to the the swings where I belonged?

I was patient, though. The jungle gym and freeze tag were fun enough in the meantime. I just wailed after school until Mom took me to the park, and it worked, when she had the energy after her shifts.

That first recess on the “big kid” side of the schoolyard is when we met. We both had our hands on the chains before the recess bell finished ringing. I hadn’t seen you back on the kindergarten side, so you must have transferred during the summer. That dash to the swings was a sign we’d click though.

We both wanted the same swing. It’s an unwritten rule passed down through decades of students that the end swing is the throne, the one that ruled the rest. A seat you couldn’t just take, but one you had to earn. It wasn’t any different than the others really, but it was means for friendly rivalry at that age.

After all those park visits, I knew it was my rightful place, but you wouldn’t budge. You suggested a contest for it, like who could swing the highest.

So eager to show off, how could I say no?

We took the next pair of swings, leaving the king’s spot reserved for the winner—no one dared to sit there, honoring the playground law. At the count of three, we both ran and leapt into our seats, the chains squeaking in accompaniment.

Our legs were a flurry of pumping back and forth, trying to be the first to gain height over the other. I hadn’t swung this high on my own before, but I kept my nerves. Even when I felt my butt sliding off the seat, I willed the strength to pull myself back up.

Could you sense that I was afraid even back then?

We reached an even height. A stalemate. You swung forward, I swung back. Our downswings lined up for a brief second before momentum carried us away from each other.

In those short meetings, you challenged me.

“Lean back.
“Eyes closed.
“Don’t open.”

Seemed easy enough. I already leaned back to watch my mom push me on the swings, just never at this height or speed. What difference does closing my eyes make?

After a few more pumps, I straightened out my body and shut my eyes like you instructed. For a moment, I was weightless.

Then, I was falling. With no concept of where I was, my mind panicked. Sweat laced my palms and they slipped down the chain. My joints unlocked, breaking the line and rocking my body backward. I caved and opened my eyes before I even reached the upswing. The startle slowed me down. I dragged my soles in the gravel until I came to a defeated stop.

You kept swinging like my failure didn’t phase you. You spoke again in quick passing.

“My turn.”

At the height of your backswing, your arms and legs turned stiff, your body flattening into a line. You made a show of holding your eyes closed, scrunching your entire face. Your head flew inches above the gravel. On the upswing, you went fully upside-down, still blind and still calm, full trust in your grip.

Then you let go.

You pulled your knees to your chest and toppled backward into a somersault. The swing fell back toward me but your body continued contorting in mid-air. Your feet somehow found their way underneath you, and the gravel rattled on your landing.

It was the single coolest thing I have ever seen. After that, I came back every day, grade in and grade out, glad to sit second-chair with you at my side.

We held tight until our hands reeked of steel, until the imprints of the chains left white hills and red valleys dancing across our palms. Even when the temperatures dipped and snow covered the ground, we’d be there letting our fingers become one with the chains until we ripped them off and left our palms stinging.

The playground was a machine, the swings were the engine. You and I were the pistons that kept it running.

Recesses were only fifteen minutes though. The whistle signaled the end of a shift, and we always finished with one final leap of faith from our swings. Those recess monitors always threatened to write us up, send us to the office if they caught us. Something about safety hazards, someone breaking a bone years before we enrolled spoiling the fun for the rest of us. But it was a big playground; they couldn’t watch us the entire time. We snuck in our moments of bliss, flying through the air and seeing if we could reach the grass past the gravel’s edge. I think they eventually gave up and turned a blind eye to us. We logged enough flight time anyway.

When we left the tethers of our swings, you would vanish. We were never in the same class; I can’t even remember seeing you in the halls. You just always reappeared on your throne when the next bell rang. We only existed on that swingset for fifteen minutes at a time. Our friendship lived in those seconds when the swings lined up.

Our conversations were easier when we swung in sync. Some fourth grader said we were ‘double dating’ and anyone who saw us after would snicker at the thought. Playground romance at that age, basically a death sentence by embarrassment. Any other student would race to kick a little harder, hang on the upswing a few seconds longer, and be single again.

But I never minded it with you. I don’t think you did either.

All we did during that time was talk. You told me about how your family moved across the country, somehow landing here in the Midwest even though you didn’t have any warm clothes for that first winter. You said how much you loved math and science and how Einstein inspired you, sticking out your tongue to imitate the poster in your bedroom. You cracked the funniest jokes I’d ever heard, even though I can’t remember any of those punchlines now. I told you about my favorite Pokémon and how I had sketchbooks filled with my own original designs. I told you what it was like living with only a mom, how it felt like something was missing but how I still felt full. I shared my career dreams that would take me far away from here, and how that scared me more than anything. Being pulled away from home, these swings? You? I couldn’t.

In all the talks you and I had, you would think we’d make plans outside of the playground. Why didn’t we?

I was okay with it, I guess. I was never one to put the question into our ether, and you seemed content with where we were at. When the summers interrupted us, our swings laid dormant and waiting. I wish, at least for a few of those humid nights, that I thumbed through our school directory for your number and asked you to sit on those swings. I’m still not sure what stopped me.

My mom even offered to take us back to the playground for a playdate, but I said no. Having her there during our time on the swings didn’t sit right. Anyways, come September, we’d take our rightful spots back without a challenge, and we’d pick up right where we left off like no time had even passed.

Did you keep coming back because you believed in me? Because you knew I was brave? You taught me how to relax and keep my eyes closed when I leaned back, but you still thought I had it in me to pull off your signature trick.

It was the last day of fifth grade, the last recess of our school careers. We both had our sights on middle school, ready for switching classrooms and meeting other students from the district. But it was our last time together on these swings.

You urged me to go for it in these final minutes. After years of observing, I must have absorbed those skills by being in your proximity, right? It would be the perfect send-off, a way to pass down our swings to the generation below us.

The nerves still gnawed at me. You told me to just try with my eyes open, that it wasn’t cheating and that it was still good enough for me. For you.

I started kicking, gaining height in just a few pumps. You whooped from below in encouragement every time I passed you, the steady beat that kept me going.

My palms were dry, not a lick of sweat making them slip. The chains groaned at the apex. I straightened out my body and locked my arms.

I laid back on the downswing. The ground whizzed past my head.

Gravity shifted with the upswing. My hair fell away from my face, the blood rushed to my head. Momentum, time itself, was slowing.

You sat in your swing watching me. Upside-down, your smile was a grimace of excitement. I tucked my legs and rolled backward.

Caught in the excitement, I forgot to let go of chains. My body fell and my arms twisted behind my back, pushing my shoulder sockets to their limits. The bolt of pain running through me was the key that finally unlocked my grip.

I always landed on my feet, but this time I fell parallel to the ground. My arms flailed forward, catching up to the rest of my body. They somehow ended up underneath me, instincts directing them to break the fall.

I heard the snap before I felt the pain, like a dry log cracking apart in a fire radiating up my arm. The burning overwhelmed me, only made worse when I tried pushing myself up. If there was any wind left in me, I would have screamed.

A recess monitor rushed to my side and rolled me on my back to see the damage. They threw up next to me.

My hands and wrists hung limply at the fractures, wet bones like jagged teeth piercing out of my skin, my fingertips brushing against my elbows. Blood soaked into the gravel, a permanent part of me left behind at these swings, a stain of my failure.

I saw you frozen on your swing, guilty eyes staring at me, through me. Then a rush of black carried me away from it all.

I woke up in the hospital with my mom next to me and both arms plastered up to my biceps. The school contacted her after an ambulance picked me up, and she was at the emergency room entrance before they arrived. The surgery took a full night, filing down bone shards and driving metal nails through to reset them.

Summer plans of swimming at the pond and biking through every backstreet of this town shattered like both my radii. Instead, it was twelve weeks of helplessness fueled by a mix of painkillers.

I missed the swings even more that summer. At least Mom found a park with an adaptive swing that strapped over my shoulders. We’d go most nights, and she’d lazily push me to make me feel better.

When the casts came off and middle school started, none of our classes lined up. We had different schedules, different homerooms, different lunch hours even. No more recess meant no more you. Sure, there were stray moments where we’d bump into each other between periods. I’d offer a quick hello or “how are you,” but you’d disappear in the throng of students before I heard a reply.

A fall changes things. I never blamed you for what happened. I thought I could do it and I wanted to, but I saw the guilt hang around you like a fog when you looked at me. It was the wedge driven that we never fully recovered from. The distance grew. Friend groups became dictated by who shared classes. I didn’t intend for us to drift apart, but I was always one to follow your lead, even if I craved to sit on those swings with you again.

It was another two or three months before I got on proper swings by myself again. My mom came with me to the park to make sure I wouldn’t have a repeat accident with my atrophied muscles. She shouted any time I got more than few feet off the ground. Soon enough though, she was too busy picking up extra shifts to cover the surgical costs and trusted me to go alone.

I swung high enough to kick the tree branches dangling in front of the swingset, but I didn’t dare lean back. If I looked down and saw the ground, disorientation set in and my arms felt weak again.

Middle school blurred into high school. I thought you open-enrolled and transferred across town until I saw your picture in our freshmen yearbook. Did we really have such different paths that we never ran into each other? Or had I just become oblivious to you in the halls?

Honestly, even if I wanted to see you again, those thoughts made me too embarrassed to reach out.

I wish I had.

I found out about the accident from a mutual friend when I was on my break. It was someone who sat with us on those swings every now and then, but they must have been closer to you, known you better than I did. Or maybe you came to fill the space when I wasn’t around.

I froze when I saw your name in their post. It was vague, only mentioning how you were gone now and how the sudden loss shocked everyone. I hesitated before messaging a follow-up to ask what happened. They gave me more details than I anticipated, like how they imagined the terrified and broken expressions your parents must have worn at the sight of that totaled car.

I hadn’t seen your name, or thought about you, in a few years. High school came and went, college graduation felt like it only happened a few days later. Those big dreams of mine, that spark inside, were crushed by facing reality and the mountain of outstanding debts that kept snowballing. Instead, they left me working a dead-end job stocking supermarket shelves.

It was too much to think about on the clock. I shoved the phone back in my locker for the rest of my shift and tried to distract myself with menial tasks.

It’s funny, isn’t it? Just how quickly a few sentences can cut a piece out from you and yet, somehow, you feel more weighed down?

I came back to a few messages from the same friend about the memorial service happening in a few days. They couldn’t make it, but thought I should know given our history.

I didn’t decide—didn’t really know—if I should go until the morning of. I wanted to be there for you, but would you want me there? Were all those recesses we spent together enough for me to show up at your funeral?

I got dressed in the only suit I owned. The once tailored fit was stiff and starchy, matching the actual discomfort I felt. Mom straightened my tie and gave me a tight hug. She may have never met you, but she knew what you meant to me, even if I never said it out loud.

I called into work with a migraine from the church parking lot. I knew they would have understood if I told them the real reason I dropped my shift, but I was still too afraid to admit it.

Walking inside, I recognized no one. Relatives and family friends funneled into the nave wearing solemn expressions. Most had their heads down in respect, but a few glances burrowed into my skin and writhed like worms.

It was the first time I met your parents after you told me so much about them. They were standing with tears in their eyes near the back row of pews, thanking everyone for coming. Your mother clasped her hands around mine when it was my turn. Your father stood next to her, a comforting arm wrapped around her shoulders. Through their sadness, they both looked at me like I was a stranger. And I was, to them.

I locked up, not knowing what combination of words worked for an introduction and a condolence message. We had so much history, so many recess memories that would bring a momentary smile on such a hard day. All those thoughts simmered at the bottom of my throat, the nerves keeping them from spilling out. Telling her I only knew you during elementary school would make me an imposter and match how I already felt.

I settled on saying I was an old friend and I was so sorry for their loss. It barely covered everything I was feeling, but it seemed to be enough. Your mother nodded with a wan smile and let me move on.

The procession continued to the end of the aisle where your casket sat closed. Someone at the front of the line, maybe an uncle or neighbor, paid their final respects through tears before finding their seat.

The line shuffled forward, more people mourned, and it was my turn before I thought of final words to tell you. I laid my hand flat on top of your casket only because it seemed like the right thing to do.

The memorial table in front of your body was filled with pictures from your life, the one I didn’t know about and the one you had after me. Discomfort grew the more I looked and didn’t recognize who you were.

Only one picture showed you the way I remembered. You were on your school swing, defying gravity and hanging upside-down, eyes closed and smile beaming. If I was there next to you then, I was cropped out now.

That’s when the emotion overwhelmed me, the pressure building in my head finding its way out through tear ducts. Years of distance and this is what I let bring us together again?

I found an empty seat near the back and waited for the service to start. I’m sure whatever the pastor said was profound and emotional, but it was all a dull drone to my ears. My face felt numb.

I watched from my car in the cemetery parking lot while your relatives said goodbye to you. I couldn’t fathom getting closer or standing there with them, but I had to be there. Even when the last of your family left and the gravediggers backfilled the soil, I couldn’t accept the finality of it. I only left when night fell and a groundskeeper threatened to lock the gates.

This couldn’t be our ending. You wouldn’t want it this way. I knew what goodbye you deserved.

So I drove, straight back to our playground, to our swings on the very end, to the only place where we were comfortable together. I threw the seat over the bar a few times to shorten the chains enough to kick my legs.

When I sat down, your swing chains rattled too. Was that you taking your seat at the throne?

I started slow, kicking lazily and letting myself swing with the breeze. The moonlight was different than the recess sun, but the motions all felt familiar. The forward and backward, the whoosh of air that came with gaining speed.

You whispered in the wind. Keep going.

How could I say no?

Pumping harder and swinging faster, higher, memories came flooding back. Our laughter, our happiness, our who-cares-what-happens-after-this-because-right-now-we’re-together attitude. I hadn’t felt this in years.

The chains echoed across the field, they groaned with each upswing. I swung until the cement anchors under the gravel shattered and the posts pulled out from the ground.

I shook that whole fucking playground for you.

A few more pumps and I would be level with the bar like we tried to do when we were small. I don’t know if it was the cold night rushing into my eyes or our lost time catching up to me, the tears streamed all the same.

I knew what I had to do with the last of my energy. Finally, it was my turn to show you how brave I’d gotten.

I pumped my legs harder than ever before, one last time. At the top of my backswing, I put all my trust in those chains. I closed my eyes and leaned back, straightening my legs. Gravity took over.

I’ve never felt a faster darkness. Blindness made my heart race. The ground rushed past at the bottom of my descent. I swear my hair brushed the gravel, but my eyes stayed zippered tight. I didn’t dare open them to confirm.

I let out the breath I was holding, using it to propel me even higher on the upswing. The chains went slack. The world froze.

My body weightless, but unwavering. I did it, but I was so scared of the fall that hadn’t come yet. The seconds of hang time seemed to stretch to minutes.
I opened my eyes.

And there you were.

Your ghost, staring back, floating upside-down between the chains. You were a fifth grader again, your face exactly how I remembered it before our impromptu goodbye. For that moment, I was ten again.

You put your arms out for me. I let go of the chains and hugged you tight. The swing fell but we stayed airborne, suspended in the night.
You took me higher.

Higher and higher still you lifted me. The playground disappeared and washed into the landscape. We joined the clouds, city lights flickering below until they disappeared and stars took their place, those eventually vanishing too.

I saw nothing except you through the ink black, but never had everything seemed so clear. You were here, and you always have been. Not on these swings, but with me.

Tears ran down my forehead and fell below us. We somersaulted through the air until we were upright. I held your gaze until I knew it was time to let go. I nodded, and you gave me the final push.

I skinned my knees on the gravel again, just shy of the grass.

___________________________________________________________

Copyright © 2025 Hunter Rising
All rights reserved.

Cover illustration by Hunter Rising