Swing Sticks or Cooled Stones

Dad and Mom were a united front against going to the baseball field. Hot tears painting his face a graceless washed-out-white wet hadn't yet broken their wall-like stoicism. Unflinching, they held their arms crossed and faces relaxed. When he left the living room (stomping off) to his toysome bedroom the parents looked at each other, Mr. and Mrs. Delore, and wondered if they were being too hard on Tubs. Jorld Anacko was letting his boy go...they were awfully close. But Tubs hadn't cleaned his room.
The Red Stick Warriors were divided factions for warring in Gnocks Hill. Duck poo covered their cheeks with sleek symbolic image-designs solidified and dried over death-cold skin. Fleeing, the living dropped arms. Once out of view (rabbit fast) the loathsome angels of native woods held no compunctions, traditional or tribal, against ambushes...they rejoined and waited. Fired Stone tensed behind a tree.
The stadium filled with descendants of German, Irish, Italian, Greek, British, Dutch, Belgium and men of places not worth naming was called "Red Stick Glorydome".
The toys were put away in Tubs room.
He picked up his weapon, a baseball bat, in the baseball field watched over by the stadium and stood between blades of grass whose ancestors drank Fired Stone's blood, reaching into a mitt.