The glorious Prussian can't be fooled.
He knows the boy is just another two-faced brat.
Wiry arms wrapping around his front, restraining him.
The metal of the blade radiating it's cold, centimeters from his neck.
Feigned cowardice slinking into the cracks of his men's morale.
He remembers it like it was yesterday.
The Prussian glares. It's that same boy, smiling in
front of him now, nervously trembling. How Weak. How superficial.
"I hate you. I hate you, I hate you," the boy's green eyes seem to croon.
They chant. A jeering song reverberating in the Prussian's brain; it throbs in his ears.
Deafening. Pounding. Building. Until he can't take it anymore.
The Prussian cracks.
AN;;
Woo, doesn't even reach the two hundred mark.
How do you write the possessive version of "men"? The computer says I did it wrong. Help?
Interpret it whichever way you want. I wonder who you think he's looking at. 9w9
Okay, okay. I know I should get back to the other two stories, but I felt bad for not uploading anything for a bajillion months.
So you get this . . . obscure composition. Of sorts.
Man, it really has no plot, does it? Unless it does. I had that happen before.
Wrote a story, had someone read it, and they were all, "Oh, how sneaky! I see what you did, there. I like it."
And I had absolutely no idea what they were talking about. Still don't.
...
Back to the twenties! Up, up, and AWAY! -heroic pose-