Short stories +++

The lies of a poor boy

This is my English exam. It's called 'The lies of a poor boy'. Hope you like it ;)

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Do you know what it feels like to be poor and without a hope of living? No? Well, I do. I am a beggar in dark and dull streets, only occasionally coming out to see the light. You want to hear more, you say? Then listen closely.

I am the rightful heir to the throne, forced to live in dingy alleyways because of a curse a witch bestowed upon my mother. It forced me to run away to earn an honest living by getting people to believe this story, and others, and then robbing them.

“Hey, Seth!” my friend Cody shouted. “Come on, let’s put on a play for tourists!”

“Coming! What’re we gonna do this time?” I shouted back as I started running towards the market square where we usually perform.

“Huck Finn or Ned Kelly, what’d you like better?”

“Let’s do both! At the same time! All of us!” I knew what scenes we would be doing, the bank robbery from Ned and the Frenchman argument from Huck. I liked to imagine the chaos it would create. I was in such a hurry that I did not see that I was about to run into someone, or who it was.

“Your excellence! What are you doing here in this cold, dirty alley?” A pompous voice entered my ears.

“Shut up, Cody, drop the act. Let’s go trick some folks!” I answered back without looking up.

Before I knew what was happening, I was dragged into a car and the driver started the engine. We were brought to a big castle and I had an odd feeling of deja vú. I was sure I had been there before, but I knew that I had not been out of town, ever.

“I think he hit his head.”

“He looks a little different.”

“What is the matter with him?”

I just got more and more confused. All I could remember was that we were going to put on a play to earn some money. So that was what I did. I recited my lines.

“Did you know that Frenchmen don’t speak the same as us? S’pose someone said to ‘polly-voo-franzy?’ what’d you think?” I waited for them to answer, but they remained quiet, so I continued.

“Hells bells. He ain’t sayin’ nothin’. He’s just askin’ if you speak French.” There was still no answer.

“Why he IS sayin’ it. That’s a Frenchman’s way of sayin’ it!” When there still was no answer, I sighed dramatically before saying my next line.

“Looky here, Jim; Does a cat talk like we do?” Finally one of them answered.

“No, a cat don’t.” the balding old man in the suite said. From now on I would call him Jim, just because he answered to that name.