During my stay at Aunt Alice's small cottage, I spent my days wandering the cliffs. One pinching cold, frosty morning I was taking my usual walk to the cliffs, passing a dense thicket, when I heard angry voices drawing near.
Through the bushes I could see a tall strong man, with his back ponytail hanging over the shoulders of his blue coat. His face mottled crimson, his eyes popped, his tree trunk neck strained. He spat out words with such ferocity and rapidity at a poor man. The latter who ought to be in his early sixties remained as still as a cadaver, unblinking against his onslaught.
From the corner of my eye, I saw the young man draw something shiny from his back and I froze as I watched in horror as he plunged a knife into the poor old fellow's stomach. I must have fainted for the whole world swam before me in a whirling mist.
And then as if nothing happened, he walked away, wiping his blood stained knife on a tuft of grass. In fear of my life, I crept through the undergrowth until I cleared the thicket. Then I ran as I'd never run before, scarce caring where so long as the man does not see me.
As I ran, my fear turned into a kind of madness and I began to imagine all kinds of dreadful things. Indeed I had witnessed a murder. Could I return safely to Alice's cottage? If the man was still out there it would all be over and there would be nothing left but death for me.
I ran till I collapsed, breathless at the cottage. Then a sudden movement inside caught my attention. My blood ran cold at the sight before me. Sitting on the couch next to Alice was a familiar figure with a ponytail.
(310 words)
