"Hollow" by Ariana Tucker
“Hollow” by Ariana Tucker is the winner of the 2021 Debut Prize in Fiction for Emerging Writers. Here’s what Touchstone’s Fiction Editor, Molly James, had to say about the short story:
“‘Hollow’ contains so many timely themes that force readers to stop and really engage with it. Tucker’s work forces readers to see both Myles and Darryl as children seeking a childhood they lost long ago and as young men struggling to find themselves—Darryl after his return from a tour of duty and Myles as he grapples with confronting his own broken heroic ideal. ‘Hollow’ layers discussions on mental illness, violence, and social discourse about the lives of young men growing up in these circumstances with masterful grace.”
Accompanying “Hollow” is an original broadside art piece influenced by the short story, created by Chailey Marr. “Hollow” is Ariana Tucker’s first fiction publication.
“Hollow” by Chailey Marr. This original piece was inspired by Ariana Tucker’s prize-winning short story.
My brother, Darryl, crouches beside his friend Jamaal’s memorial. When we’d first arrived at the old basketball courts, Darryl had knelt down on one knee and bowed his head. He’d stayed in that position for several minutes before speaking.
“How did he die?” he asks.
“Someone shot him here on the courts last year,” I reply. He doesn’t look at me as I speak. “No one knows why, but some say it was gang-related. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong people. That sorta thing.”
The sun leans toward the horizon and after almost a week of rain, there isn’t a cloud in the sky. I rub at my neck where the summer sun is already starting to scorch my skin and leave it dewy with sweat.
Darryl seems unbothered by the heat. He reaches out and picks up one of the rain-damaged teddy bears that adorn the memorial. They’re the kind that you’d find on the shelves at the local dollar store. There are 23 of them— one for every year of Jamaal’s life. Jamaal had grown up along with Darryl and their friend Wayne, making him six years older than me, but I knew him well enough to know that he would’ve hated the display. He’d never been the sentimental type, and it was almost laughable to imagine the gruff man Jamaal had become taking any joy in a bunch of stuffed animals.
Darryl stands up and lets the bear in his grasp fall back to the ground. He releases a heavy sigh that flutters out into a laugh that shakes his narrow shoulders. The sound is soft at first, a gentle chuckle that turns almost furious.
“Shot.” He repeats the word harshly, but when he turns to me, he’s baring his teeth in a wide grin. “That’s funny, ain’t it, Myles? I go out there, dodging bullets, and he’s home, supposed to be safe.”
Darryl chuckles again, and I shift uneasily from foot to foot. After Darryl came back from the army, he started finding humor in unsettling places.
Darryl turns to me. “Where’d he get shot?”
I shrug. “I dunno. All over, I guess. Wayne knows it better than me. He was there.”
“You ever seen someone get shot, Little Man? I’m not talking about that action movie stuff. You ever see a man get shot for real?”
I shake my head, but Darryl’s already turning away. He can’t seem to get himself to stop looking back at the memorial. I can’t help but wonder how many of those Darryl had made overseas. How many friends had he buried before Jamaal?
“It’s too pretty in the movies,” he says, his back still turned to me. “There’s no gentle mist of red, no perfect splatter on a window or a white wall.”
Feeling dizzy, I turn my gaze toward a group of kids playing on the swing set. Two boys competitively kick their legs, willing themselves to soar higher than the other.
“Nah, Little Man. A man that gets shot, he don’t just fall. He explodes. You never realize how soft a man is until a bullet’s tearing through his chest. We ain’t nothing but flesh and bone. And bullets, they don’t care about nothing else but getting to the other side.”
The boys on the swings jump off. They’re weightless for a few seconds before they crash to the ground. One lands firmly on his feet while the other catches himself on his hands and knees. The one who’s skinned his knees doesn’t cry out. He brushes the pebbles from his skin and shows off his wounds to his friends who all grin at what is sure to be an impressive scar. I find myself envying the boy’s imperviousness to pain. More often than not when we were kids, Darryl was the one landing on his feet while I fell flat on my face. I’d always burst into tears. It was Darryl who picked me up, dusted me off, and told me I’d do better next time.
When I look away from the boys, I find that Darryl is looking through me. His almost black eyes settle on something beyond me, something only he can see. I clear my throat and with a blink, he’s back in the present. His eyes refocus on me before he glances down at Jamaal’s washed-out photo.
“Are you sure you’re up for this today?” I ask. “Momma said—”
Darryl whips his gaze back to me so quickly that I swallow the rest of my sentence. “Don’t you listen to what Momma said. She just wants me cooped up in that damn house all day, but she don’t know what I need.”
“You never realize how soft a man is until a bullet’s tearing through his chest.“
Momma had been reluctant to let us leave that evening. Darryl had only been back home for about a week, drifting from room to room whenever he seemed to forget that he was alive and safe. Before we left, she’d pulled me to the side and gripped my shoulders so hard I thought they’d bruise.
You take care of your brother, boy. You look out for him. I’d simply nodded even though I had no idea how to protect my brother from the monsters raging in his head. She’d uttered those exact words to Darryl more times than I could count when we were growing up, and being Darryl’s little brother had come with certain protective privileges I’d needed more often than I cared to admit.
Darryl smiles at me and he’s almost got me fooled that he’s Big Bro again. He claps a hand down on my back with more force than he probably intended. When he drops his hand to his side, I reach back to rub away the sting of his touch.
“I need this, Little Man,” he says. “I really need this. If I spend one more day in that house, I’m gonna lose my mind.”
I nod, hearing my mother’s orders as a fading echo in my head. Darryl’s smile pinches at the corners like he’s grinding his teeth in the back and I know he’s right. Darryl claps me on the back again, reigniting the earlier sting.
“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure not to embarrass you too badly in front of your friends, and I got your back on the courts today.”
I’m saved from having to come up with a quipping response when the rest of the guys arrive. They all knew Darryl was back in town, but I didn’t tell any of them that he’d be here today. I was too afraid many of them wouldn’t show up if they got the chance to see him in advance. The guys closer to my age look at him in shock, their mouths dropped down and eyes bugging out of their skulls. In a few seconds, Darryl is surrounded by adoring fans. Darryl smiles and greets each of them even though most of them are strangers to him. The older ones, Darryl’s old teammates and classmates, hang back. When they do come forward, I stand back from the flurry of voices and back-clapping man-hugs.
There’s only one who doesn’t come forward: Wayne. Where Darryl’s lost a considerable amount of weight, Wayne’s gotten bigger. I’ve only seen him in passing with the other guys down at the auto repair shop that doubled as a hang-out spot. Wayne had been the only one of Darryl’s friends not to welcome my presence, but he’d never been particularly warm to anyone. He looked at life through jade-tinted glasses and always had a look on his face like he’d taken a bite out of the world one day and still couldn’t get the bitter taste out of his mouth. It was a look that had only further soured when Darryl passed on basketball to join the army, and it became a permanent fixture on his face ever since Jamaal’s funeral.
Darryl’s the one to make the first move in bridging the gap between them. He crosses the court and holds out a hand to Wayne like an olive branch. Wayne looks at it, then shakes it. There’s no hug, just the handshake like they’re strangers and not the brothers they once were.
“You look like hell,” Wayne says.
A couple of the guys laugh, but I bristle. We all know it’s true, but there’s an unspoken line that we’ve all been toeing. Wayne either can’t see it or he’s choosing to ignore it. I’m prepping myself to step in, remembering my mother’s orders, but Darryl laughs. The laugh comes out sharp, but the look on his face shows no anger.
“That don’t mean I can’t still beat you. Don’t think for a second I’m going easy on any of you,” Darryl says.
He releases Wayne’s hand. Wayne rubs his palm against the side of his shorts as he flashes a smile that doesn’t reach the deep furrow of his brow. Wayne’s gaze then shifts to me where I stand off to the side. I move forward to join the guys who are already starting to sort themselves into teams.
“You’re playing, Little Man?” Wayne asks.
Part of me wants to believe that he means nothing by the question; when Darryl went away, I’d had no real reason to come to the courts. That was Darryl’s passion, and these were Darryl’s friends. But his words bruise my pride. I hate the sound of my childhood nickname coming from his mouth. I know that Darryl calls me that as a term of endearment and a force of habit, but with Wayne I always felt like he was trying to force me to become smaller and smaller until I disappeared.
“You know, we ain’t gonna go easy on you. You think you can keep up?” Wayne asks.
A couple of the guys snicker. I try to come up with some witty comeback, but my mouth hangs open. I curl my hands into fists before wiping my sweaty palms on my shorts. I look to Darryl who’s been watching this exchange with uncharacteristic silence. Usually, he would’ve come to my defense by now, but it takes the connection of our gazes to prompt him to speak up.
“He’s good. He can keep up,” Darryl says. “Ain’t that right, Little Man?”
I nod and Wayne laughs so softly that I’m the only one that hears him.
“Alright then. Let’s see what y’all got,” Wayne replies like he’s already decided that we have nothing to offer him in terms of challenge.
We gather up to separate into two teams. Darryl stands a head taller than almost all the other guys. While I’ve inherited Momma’s short genes, legend has it that Darryl was the longest baby anyone had ever seen, and by day two he’d already grown two inches. He’d never stopped growing. I spent all my life in Darryl’s literal shadow, but it was a glorious place to be. I looked up to my brother, most people did. His skills on the court had everyone thinking that he’d make it big and go pro someday. Everyone seemed to recognize Darryl, and everyone wanted a piece of the people’s champion, but I always got the biggest chunk.
Being Darryl’s little brother came with its perks. It meant no one messed with me because no one could outrun Darryl and his long legs and it meant that despite my 5’5” stature, I was never picked last for a pick-up game.
“You playing, little Man?”
The group of eight divides in two— Darryl as team captain of the Skins and Wayne as captain of the Shirts. I’m a little self-conscious when I take off my shirt. Momma’s always been one to overcook and I’ve never turned down a plate of second helpings. I’m all too aware of the way my paler stomach jiggles lightly when I move. But no one’s looking at me. Their gazes are trained on Darryl.
Darryl does all his dressing in the bathroom, and looking at him on the courts I know why. I can’t tell what’s a worse sight— his protruding bones or the keloids that have formed on his skin like the cracks in the asphalt. I know that Darryl can sense their gazes, but he’d been the one to pick Skins. He stands still for a moment and lets us stare as if to say, Look at what I’ve survived. Look at what I went through for all of you.
When the game begins, at first, no one seems to want to touch Darryl, not that anyone can. I’d expected him to be out of practice. Some of the boys who play with us are on Darryl’s old high school team now. I’ve always thought they were good, but Darryl’s too fast even for all of us. We catch the ball just to pass it to let him take the shots.
It feels like the first time I’m seeing the real Darryl again. The Darryl who seems to defy all laws of physics and turns to smooth flowing mercury as he moves. The version of Darryl who flies when he jumps, who grins and laughs so jubilantly that passersby can’t help but turn their heads, eager to be in on the joke. This isn’t the living dead man who's been occupying our shared bedroom. There’s no sign of the frightened creature I see every time I wake him from a fitful nightmare. He doesn’t look like he cries in his sleep or when looking at old family photographs. He looks alive. Like he’s breathing for the first time.
It takes almost an hour of play for things to go sour. By then, the streetlights are on to compensate for the lack of sunlight. The basketball hoops and our sweating bodies cast long shadows on the ground. One of the boys from our team decided to call it in early, and with the disadvantage, the teams slowly dissolve into every man for himself. Darryl doesn’t pass me the ball anymore. He doesn’t rely on any of his old teammates. He steals the ball away from other Skins and makes reckless dunks over our heads. I almost want to pull him aside and tell him to dial it back, but I decide it’s safer to give him a wide berth. Most of us do.
Darryl’s body is slick with sweat. He’s tired and moving more slowly; we can all finally keep up with him, but no one wants to get close. He protects the ball like it’s his lifeline and growls whenever it’s taken from him. He’s got the look of a caged, feral animal in his eyes, and most of the guys step out of his way when he’s barreling toward them, myself included. Only Wayne is daring enough to get near him, and the two battle it out with increasing levels of violence.
It doesn’t take long for more guys to start dropping out of the game. The ones my age use curfew as an excuse, pointing to the now orange evening sun. Others claim they have some sort of job to get to or a girl waiting for them at home. Soon, it’s just me, Darryl, Wayne, and three older guys. I’m all but excluded from the remainder of the game. I can barely keep up with them anymore. My arms feel like they’ve got weights tied to them every time I try to take a shot, so I take a seat on the sidelines.
I’m not looking when it happens. I’m too busy pulling at some loose chunks of asphalt and at the weeds that have started growing where the sidewalk meets the courts, but I hear it. First, the collision of bodies, and then I swear I can hear the sound of Wayne’s flesh grinding against the unforgiving asphalt. I’m jumping to my feet as Wayne curses, inspecting his elbows for damage. Darryl stands over him as the ball rolls away from the group, his eyes wide with shock and concern. He leans down as if to help Wayne stand, but Wayne gets to his feet all on his own. He shoves Darryl hard enough to send him stumbling back a few steps. One of the other guys intervenes with a hand to Wayne’s chest, but Darryl just stands there with his arms hanging at his sides.
“The hell was that for?” Wayne snaps.
Darryl shrugs then flashes one of his misplaced smiles. “Sorry. I thought you could take it.”
There’s something unsettling about Darryl’s smile. It looks friendly enough, teasing, but his eyes glint like he’s cackling maniacally inside. I want to force myself forward, will myself to spit out a few words that will make the situation settle down, but I can’t move. Wayne steps forward again, and it takes two guys to hold him back now.
Wayne pushes them off and gets in Darryl’s face. “You got something to say to me?”
Darryl’s smile falls off his face, and in its place is that haunted look I see every time I find him staring at old photographs.
“Where were you?” Darryl asks, his voice as low and ragged as his breathing. “Where were you when he was bleeding out? Did you leave him? Did you run?”
Wayne’s eyes widen when he realizes what Darryl’s talking about. He steps back when the force of that realization hits him. “Screw you, man.”
Darryl steps forward filling that space again. “Where did you go? What did you do?”
“He’s gone. We’re not. I guess that says something about both of us.”"
Wayne bares his teeth in a soundless growl. “I’m not the one that left. I’m not the one that let everyone down.”
He shoves Darryl in the chest. I take a small step forward, but Darryl just takes it. Wayne shoves him again. I flinch at the sound of his hands thumping against Darryl’s chest
“We were counting on you and left us. And for what?” Wayne shoves Darryl again. “What did you fight for? What did you accomplish? He’s gone. We’re not. I guess that says something about both of us.”
Darryl’s shoulders shake with a short laugh. “No. I fought to survive. But you, you’ve always been a coward. I bet you ran.”
No one moves to intervene when Wayne’s first punch lands. Darryl doesn’t bring his arms up to block the second or the third. When he goes down, Wayne doesn’t let up. Darryl doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t blink. Darryl smiles with blood-red teeth as he welcomes Wayne’s blows and curses.
You take care of your brother, boy. You look out for him.
My mother’s voice in my ear snaps me out of my stupor, and my feet move me forward. I only mean to pull Wayne off of him and free my brother from his grasp. I don’t remember making a fist. I don’t remember how many times I hit him. I’m only seeing clearly when they’re pushing me away. I feel the pain across my knuckles and hear the shouts of the onlookers. Blood runs from his temple and down the side of Wayne’s face to mix with the thick, crimson saliva that drips from his mouth. I look down at my hands, at my split knuckles, and at the asphalt chunk in my clenched fist that I don’t remember picking up, and I feel like I might blackout.
But then Darryl is at my back, holding me up and yanking on my arm and then we’re running. We must look insane, two sweaty, shirtless guys running through the streets. We run for two blocks before my head is finally clear enough to register what happened, and suddenly, I can’t move. I rush into the nearest alley where the bile churning in my stomach forces its way out of my mouth. I choke on it as I gasp for air and gag. Darryl slaps my bare back the way a mother burps her baby. I’m still shaking from the force of my heaving convulsions when Darryl starts to laugh. I’m still holding onto that chunk of asphalt.
“You see the look on his face? He didn’t see that coming Little Man,” Darryl says through his laughter. He claps me on the back again. “I don’t think anyone did. You did good.”
I look up at him in disbelief, but he’s just smiling at me. His teeth are still pink from some cut inside his mouth. I can’t tell if the moisture streaming down his cheeks are sweat, tears, or both.
“I needed this,” he says. “Thank you.”
I open my mouth to respond, but then I’m gagging again on unspoken words and bloody memories as my hollowed-out stomach has nothing else to give. Darryl keeps patting me, each slap pulsating through my body. Like a bullet to the back.
Ariana Tucker is a teacher by day and a fiction writer by night. She is currently a student in the M.A. in Writing program at Rowan University where she also serves as a fiction editor for Glassworks Magazine. She writes short fiction that seeks to give a voice to those who are unsure of who they are. "Hollow" is her first published work and she is currently working on a collection of short fiction.
Broadside Artist:
Chailey Marr received her Bachelor’s of Fine Arts from the University of Nebraska-Lincoln with an emphasis in Painting. Her art has evolved over time introducing digital media and textiles as new creative expressions. Chailey lives in Western Wyoming where she enjoys spending time in the outdoors and dreaming of one day becoming a hobbit.