The Stick

Just a short story about a little boy... and a stick

      The young boy ran through the thick wooded forest carrying the light wooden spear in his hand. Suddenly he stops, spotting his prey. It is a lazy old mountain lion sleeping in the sun rays. The boy creeps up slowly trying not to make a sound, but then he steps on a twig making a loud crack. Quickly, the lion opens his eyes and spots the boy. At the sight of his weapon the old lion gets up and runs away. Giving chase the boy runs after the mountain lion going as quick as his feet can carry him.

      Suddenly bullets whiz over head and the boy leaps in to the trench. His spear is now a gun and his clothes are now that of a soldier. Enemy soldiers are closing in from every side and he is trapped with no escape. Since the boy would rather die with pride that die a coward he bravely leaps out of the trench and lets out a fearless cry, shooting blindly in every direction and then he starts to run again.

      His army boots vanish leaving his feet bare as he runs across the hard dirt which suddenly turns to hot sand. Stopping, he looks around him, there is nothing but desert as far as the eye can see. The flaming, orange sun sinks slowly in the distance, and in its flaming ball of fury, four small black specks emerge and quickly grow larger. The boy, which clothes are now that of a desert rider, realizes that the four black specks are actually men on horses. They are not just any men though, they are desert thieves. Hastily the boy looked at his hand and the item in it, which once again, had changed. A sword now lay in the boy’s hand. He looked back up at the rapidly approaching thieves. His only chance of survival was to take the men down and steal one of the stallions so that he could ride to safety.

      He carefully braced himself and held the sword with a firm grip. The four men quickly dismounted their fine black steeds and unsheathed their swords. Their ringleader, who was the tallest of them all, stood back and watched while the other three men slowly advanced. With one sharp blow the boy dropped the closest desert thief. Jumping forward quickly the other two thieves lunged at the boy only to be dropped also. Now, only the fallen men’s leader remained.

      He attacked the boy with a great fury, striking harder and harder with every blow, but each blow that the man gave the boy blocked. Finally the man delivered an attack with such force that the boy dropped his sword and now disarmed. “Now you shall die for the trouble that you have caused me,” The man whispered. He carefully lifted the sword to the boy’s neck and… “Peter! Time for dinner!” the boy’s mother called. “Coming!” he responded as he jumped out of the sandbox, ran past the culvert, by the bushes, and up the steps where he only paused a moment to pet his old cat lying in the sun. And there, in the sandbox, there lay the boys stick, his item of choice, his spear, his gun, and his sword lay right there, in his sand box, in that stick.

The End

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