Today's challenge was to write a children's story - which left things pretty open compared to the title-based challenges of the first two days. But, that openness was a challenge in itself as it took me ages to pick an idea and stick with it. Ideas that came close, but which didn't make it, included a story about someone who had a dinosaur under the bed, a version of the three pigs (in which the wolf was a council planner who simply tried to stop the pigs from considerable breaches of health and safety), and a story about a pirate who was an abject failure at pirate school. In the end, I went with something completely different; a story told in rhyme about an imaginary friend...
A Children's Story - Imaginary Friend
Billy’s my imaginary friend,
I play with him every day.
We play a million games,
And he’s fun in every way.
He’s waiting for me when I wake,
We go and eat breakfast together,
Then we both go get on our coats,
And go out, whatever the weather.
We go on the swings and the slide,
And we dig great big holes in the sand,
We spin the roundabout so very fast,
Having an imaginary friend is just grand.
When we’re home we play with the toys,
We do jigsaws and read lots of books,
Then as it gets late in the day,
We watch as mum or dad cooks.
We eat dinner and laugh out loud,
Mum and dad think I am silly,
I try to explain but they don’t understand,
It’s because mum and dad can’t see Billy.
Then it’s time to get ready for bed,
We splash and we play in the bath,
We put on pyjamas and clean our teeth,
And maybe have one final laugh.
Then we both climb up into bed
And I watch Billy as he falls asleep
I wish he could be forever my friend,
His company I always want to keep.
But Billy is growing much older,
And our time soon must end, I feel.
For once Billy completely grows up,
To me, he’ll no longer be real…
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“This isn’t a fucking children’s story,” David yelled. “Don’t you get it yet? There’s literally zero chance of a happy fucking ending at this point.”
I stared down at the man slumped at my feet. He was bleeding out. I glanced over at David; all things considered, his chances weren’t great, either.
The screen door rattled idly as the Oklahoma winds kicked up outside.
Think, you fucking moron. Think.
I walked briskly into the kitchen and grabbed the first aid kit from the counter. Its presence seemed too convenient, like somehow the homeowners knew that a major deal was destined to go south in their living room that afternoon.
The homeowners. Molly and Jeff Turnbuck. They didn’t deserve this. Imagine coming back from your luxury, all-inclusive Alaskan cruise and finding a dead thug in a congealed pool of blood slumped against your sewing ottoman.
I threw the first aid kit in my accomplice’s general direction.
“Patch yourself up, Dave. We have to move.”
I reached into my backpack, pulled out a grand, and popped it casually into the cutlery draw.
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Turnbuck, sorry about the fucking mess.
In the yard, the scene was grim. Half a dozen agents lay in various positions along the driveway; my accomplice was, thankfully, a bit of a whiz with a sniper rifle, and none of them had managed to get within 50 yards of the old farmhouse.
None of them except that sneaky fucker who came in through the basement door and burst into the living room unannounced.
Lucky for me, I’d heard him trip on a rake before he’d climbed the stairs, and I was able to plant a hollow-point in his head before he knew what was happening.
Suddenly, sirens.
My accomplice groaned.
“Time to go.”
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