The
Stick
Jake jumped off his horse and looked down the barrel of his
rifle. The posse was nowhere in
sight. He must’ve outrun ’em. He slunk down in relief and sat on the
ground, his back against the trunk of the tree. He had just caught his breath when, through
his telescope, he spied his adversaries coming over the ridge. There were four of them, the sheriff in the
lead. Would they string him up from this
very tree? In desperation, he climbed up
the tree, hiding quietly, the beat of his heart loud enough to give him away.
“Come on, Jake! It’s
time for supper.” His brother shouted
from below.
“Don’t come any closer or I’ll run you through with my
sword!” Jake told him, dropping from the tree.
“You little dork, that is nothing but a stick!” The fifteen
year old said with disdain.
Jake looked down at the stick in his hand. It was his trusty
steed, his rifle, his telescope, his sword.
He shook his head in wondering sadness. He followed his brother out of
the park, carrying his ever-changing, miraculous toy. How sorry he felt for his brother. It must be horrible to be fifteen!
