Ask not for whom the croc ticks

With a bow and a flourish, I invited Hook to pick up his sword again. He leapt to it instantly, of course, but he was never my match with sword.

Hook ventured all-or-nothing thrusts, but I turned each aside with ease again and again. He sought to close and catch me with that wicked iron hook, but I ducked beneath.

He executed a stop-thrust and jumped back, panting heavily, waving his cutlass before my eyes. He held the wicked hook pointed at my chest, but paused for just a moment, using it to gesture in my direction.

“Pan, who and what art thou?”, he gasped.

I ventured some nonsense, because (of course) I knew not in the least.

“I’m youth, I’m joy,” I shouted in triumph. “A baby bird that has broken out of the egg.”

His eyes widened, for a brief moment.

Then with a sharp report, the small single-shot pistol concealed in the ornate hook burned a line of fire into my chest. As I collapsed onto the deck, James Hook leaned over and sank the tip of his cutlass deep into my belly.

“I am age, and I’m treachery,” he said quietly, and the lights faded for the very last time.

RecDave Seal

Craft a story from the perspective of a twelve-year-old observing it all. For your twist, focus on specific character qualities, drawing from elements we’ve worked on in this course, like voice and dialogue.

Yep, I watched a live Peter Pan broadcast earlier this evening. The connection to the prompt was an obvious one.

Apologies to the JM Barrie estate, I had to lift Pan’s “I am youth” line nearly verbatim. It is rather iconic. But then again, I also killed off his lead and wrecked his entire happy ending…a much larger offense, surely.


We’re so sorry, Uncle Albert

Today, we have a photo-finish, the East German and Russian judges both awarding identical scores.

You see, I owe my poor computer an apology, clearly. Any time something goes wrong, I swear at the thing and treat it really rather meanly. Yet it functions flawlessly, nearly all the time.

It really doesn’t deserve the degree of verbal abuses I’ve been known to snarl at it. Not its fault I can’t find that file I was working on this morning, or that I forgot to save that art project early and often. It’s my fault, of course, that I’m such a moron. But I’m like a petty, mean plantation owner whupping the slaves to work harder because the cotton crop failed this year.

And I owe my computer chair an apology (and the couch). Because, well…I fart directly in their faces, almost every day. Most people do, I am sure; there are just certain pieces of furniture who are going to eagerly provide the hangin’ ropes on the morning of the Great Furniture Revolt.

So well…I’m sure that most of my furniture deserves (and plots) horrible revenge on me. It’s just a matter of time.

If I should vanish suddenly, then tell my wife that






RecDave Seal


But if anything should happen, we’ll be sure to give a ring.

If your furniture, appliances, and other inanimate objects at home had feelings and emotions, to which item would you owe the biggest apology?