Each time I lose hope in my children following in my footsteps, one little sprog surprises me. All that kicking and fussing that I do to make them read books, enjoy literature, watch educational programmes that put them to sleep in under five minutes – well, it feels pointless when they point their glum faces at me. That is, until today.
Today is the day I spring out of my chair and shout, huzzah! I’ve created a writer! He might not like it. In fact, he has stressed on many occasions that he hates it, but it’s there. My youngest sprog can do it. It might not be the best writing you’ve ever come across but this piece is something he enjoyed creating and actually spent time editing (which is a first!), so I am a very proud mum/author.
Without further ado, I present my youngest sprog’s short story:
My own short story
The first drop brought the happy memories of the water spraying in the lush, calm, summer atmosphere. It reminded me of when I had a normal life, living like a normal child. It has been 9 months since I got the job. The sinister, dirty job of an assassin. Nobody believed a child would be a threat; that’s why they recruited me. That, and the fact that I was also fastest and strongest, making it easy for them to teach me how to fight and kill.
Staring straight into his cold, blood–red eyes, I try to make a sound, failing, knowing that my chest has been pierced. I feel my eyes widen, bulging out like they are about to explode. His mouth dares me to move, dancing up a smile on his face. Looking down at my chest, I feel scared and cold, hoping they will help me.
The second drop of blood welcomes the pain which starts to kick in almost immediately. It’s like a black hole consuming my dark heart. My skin is sliced, exposing crimson droplets that curdle beneath me. Panic possesses my body, which ignores the pain sending clear messages to escape right up to my brain. I try to gasp for air but, as soon as my mouth twitches even a little, a sharp strike destroys my chest. The pain is excruciating. I look down at the sword sheathed between my ribs, mocking me with my reflection. He stabbed me twice. His mimicking sword, Excalibur, had bolted right through me, twice! My jumbled thoughts shake my brain. I just can’t believe it…I have lost. In all my fights and training throughout my whole life I have never failed, but here I lie, almost dead on the floor with a sword in my chest and a pool of blood growing each second.
Scrambling all my last words together, I manage to cough up the sentence, “You may think that you have won this fight, but I am only their puppet. I am the small messenger delivering the evil deeds they need.”
Confused, he rips the sword out from my chest and screams at me, “Tell me what you mean! You have no superior! I have defeated you and you dare lie to me? I am done. I have won. You are going to die any second now!”
I don’t believe it; he is going crazy with fear. He knows I don’t lie and how this fight, which almost killed him as well, could have been the bare minimum of the assassination group’s power.
My eyes begin to water, and he starts to become blurry. I look up and sigh, feeling my organs fail. I know that this is the end. I smile. And die.
I cannot believe I have defeated the weakest man of the assassination group. I scream. Holding my ferocious sword in the air, scattering thoughts of what he said into emotions, I swing down with all my might to take yet another head for my trophy collection; only this time, it feels different.