Paris 1789

• Eli Pritchard, Grade 4
• Short Story
• 2016

Oliver awoke to the scuttling of feet on cobblestones. He went to the window and had a look outside. He presumed it was about 3 o’clock in the morning and the sky was dull, like always. He could see the ramshackle house across the road, and thought he could hear his little brother Charlie crying somewhere in the house. He could hear shouting and what he thought was gunfire He ran down the stairs. As he did, there was another gunshot. When he stumbled out on to the street, a bullet zipped past his ear. He looked at the people firing the gun one was a bit bulgy with a long beard the other one was sort of skinny, with waxed moustache, then he looked at the target. Oliver could tell she had been hit a few times already.
He rushed over to grab her but an excruciating pain shot up his leg. Then everything went black, when Oliver awoke he was in a dark room with one bench and a wooden bed and the only light was shining through a barred window. Oliver got off the floor and went over to the locked door. He then realised he was in some sort of jail. Oliver limped over and sat down on the bed. Then a guard unlocked the door then opened it. He walked in and Oliver was yanked off the bed. When they were walking down the hallway, Oliver could hear quiet footsteps behind him but the guard didn’t seem to notice. Oliver turned around and saw the girl he had tried to save earlier that day. The girl tip toed past Oliver and tripped up the guard and stole his gun and pointed it at the guard’s head and said, “You are going to get us out of here or else.” It seems that the blood I had seen when I had tried to save her was actually the blood of her dead mother.