When the police car stops in front of Mrs. P’s house, Dad’s words begin to make sense.
‘Don’t get shot,’ I tell him every day. Today, he replied with a grimace, ‘I gotta feeling it’s gonna be one of those days when getting shot’d be less painful.’
Mrs. P opens the door. The landlord’s all aggressive, insists on his rights.
‘Pat, Mickey,’ Mrs. P pleads. ‘You spent half your childhoods in my kitchen, devouring cookies and milk. Now your kids do.’
Dad and Mickey stand there, shoulders slumping.
I can’t watch. But first, I make sure Dad knows I saw.
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Aah sad
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Yeah, I know. I go to sad stories by default – funny ones are so much harder (for me)…
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Poor old Mrs P. The voice is good- they have a straight forward way of saying things, a slightly simpler vocab that sounds naive. I think you did really well in the word count. I might like to hear what happened next to Mrs P, though…
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Thank you, Lynn! Twelve’s a tricky age, I wasn’t quite sure I got it right. And to be honest, I don’t think it ends well for Mrs. P…
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Tricky indeed- not really children, not really adults. My son’s eleven and he regularly surprises me with how adult he can sound at times… then he’ll make a fart joke and I remember how very young he is 🙂 You did a good job, though- just right, I thought.
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Really effective and enjoyable. This was great way to answer the prompt!
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Thank you, Laura!
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