Thanks to http://www.helium.com/knowledge/101524-short-stories-bullies we got some stories about bullying that will raise your awareness
Henry
His name was Henry. I do not recall his last name, but Henry will do for this story. He was the 'tough-guy" in our Junior High School (What I guess they call middle school today.) Most of the kids were somewhat afraid of Henry and avoided him as much as possible. They said he was a bully, and I suppose he did push his weight around a bit. Henry did not have a "gang". He was pretty much a "loner", but that was alright because he could look out for himself very well, thank you; and his friends, too, if he should have any. Well, he did have friends, of which I was one. There were other wannabe bullies in school, but if Henry befriended you, you were always safe from them. Henry liked who he liked and had little time for those he didn't. I never saw Henry go looking for trouble, but if trouble came looking for him, then trouble was in for a rousing good time. Perhaps I should say a bad time, because I never knew Henry to loose a fight if he was forced into one.
Maybe it was his physical appearance and bearing that made the other kids want to give Henry plenty of personal space. He was short and stocky in stature with powerful arms and legs, broad shoulders, deep chest, and thick neck. He had close-set blue eyes in deep sockets under heavy brows which had no break between them; just one long brow of coarse blond hair all the way across his forehead. His nose was "pugged"; flat and wide. His countenance was usually stern, but not mean. His blond hair was kept very closely cut. (So as not to give the other guy an advantage in a fight, I suppose). If ever there was a stereotypical model for the name "Butch", as applied to tough guys in those days, Henry was it.
As was mentioned earlier, Henry became my friend, my protector if need be, and to this day I do not know why. We did have something in common in that we were both "loners" in school, associating with only a few acquaintances. Shortly after I arrived at that school, Henry took me in tow and showed me around; how to get from class to class in a hurry or, how to not get to class at all without getting caught; where to stash our books and personal things so that they would be safe because there were no lockers. He showed me many other things, too, but we won't get into that. Suffice it to say that we enjoyed one another's society and tried our best to stay out of trouble. Some might say that Henry was a bad influence, but he never influenced me to do anything that I didn't want to do.
Kristine
The sound of the horse in the paddock munching on his hay was calming me down. This is where I come to hide from the world. It is a small riding barn located down the street from our new house. I like our house, what I don't like are some of the kids at school. They are mean.
Sitting down, I grab a blade of grass and start twirling the end of it around in my mouth. The horse raises his and looks me over. He sniffs the air then slowly lowers his head to continue eating his hay. At least he is checking on me, I think to myself. The tears well up and I let them fall. I don't have to pretend I'm strong here. I don't have to pretend I'm not scared. Here, I'm just plain old me. I'm so glad I found this place, I don't know what I would do if it wasn't here. Nobody knows I come here to cry. This is between me and the horse.
Walking home from school is pure torture. The three bullies, April, Lisa, and Christy make my life hell. They walk behind me, calling me fatso, blubber, and some other nasty names. They walk so closely behind me, throwing things at my head, usually acorns, berries from bushes and small pebbles. I ignore them the best I can. I don't let them know that the pebbles hurt. I try not to increase my pace to get away, when all I want to do is run. I don't want them to know how scared and afraid I am of them. I let them kick me. I don't do anything, I just keep walking with my head down and my long blond hair covering my face. They kick me harder and shove me. I stumble and correct myself as they laugh. Don't look at them, I tell myself, don't make a sound. Just keep on walking. All the way praying that I can make it home without bursting into tears. They would love to see that. April shoves me real hard. Lisa trips me. I fall to my knees. My glasses fall to the ground. I don't look up. The attack is over. The rest of the walk home will be peaceful. I can only wonder what torture they are going to put me through tomorrow on my walk home.
I don't know what I did to them to make them hate me so much. Is it because I'm the 'new kid'? What is it that I have that makes them want to hurt me so much? When will it stop?
It never stopped, not until I moved to a different city. Nobody tortures me here. I am happy here. I learned a lot from the bullies. I learned that name calling DOES hurt, physical scars heal, but mental scars take a long, long time. I can still hear them in my head when I think about the torture they put me through. I can still see their sneers. I can still see their smug smiles as they hurt me.
Phoebe I was hiking one fall evening when I saw Phoebe's ghost for the first time. She appeared along the trail and asked me to walk with her. She had a soft and kind, Irish brogue. I recognized her angelic face from the pictures in the newspaper. I walked with her as the moon lit up the trails. She had a quiet and sweet disposition about her. I followed her as she told me her story. She came to these woods the night she died. She had just moved here from Ireland and started ninth grade. The girls at school were jealous of her because she was the pretty new girl that the boys liked. She tried to make friends, but the popular girls didn't like her. The girls started spreading rumors around school, saying she was a whore. It was a peaceful and quiet night. I could hear the soothing sound of the river and smell fire wood burning in the distance. As we walked up a steep trail, she went on to say that she tried to let it go, but her silence only enraged the girls. They began posting messages on Facebook, calling her an Irish pig. She didn't want to tell her parents because she didn't want them to worry, so she suffered quietly. This went on for months, she said. And one fall day while walking home from school, a group of girls drove past her, threw a can at her and called her an Irish slut. She went home that day and cried for hours. Her translucent blue eyes were filled with tears as she shared her story. That night she walked deep into the woods with a scarf that her sister had given her for Christmas. She cried some more as she looked up at the twinkling stars and asked God for forgiveness. She pointed to a verse that she etched into a tree moments before she hanged herself. She led me to it and disappeared. It read: As my body hangs here tonight, let my soul burst through this broken body and into the light. - Phoebe
