You wake up lying in the street in a heap of broken wooden crates and smashed fresh fruit, the remains of a vendor’s push-cart. You vaguely remember jumping through a window, but you can’t remember why. For that matter, you’re not even sure who you are or what city you’re in.
A heavy-set man in a stained white apron is standing above you, shouting angrily
in a foreign language. You stagger to your feet, dusting yourself off. Stalling for time while you regain your balance you politely inquire: "Parlez vous
Francais?"
"Oui!" he responds gruffly.
"Well, I sure as hell don't!" you reply, quickly grabbing a small seedless
watermelon and running away.
"Halte! Halte! Ravisseur!" The fruit vendor calls out, and several citizens join in
the chase after you.
Copyright 2000 - 2025 21 x 20 Media All rights reserved. This site is property of 21 x 20 Media
All Writing.Com images are copyrighted and may not be copied / modified in any way. All other brand names & trademarks are owned by their respective companies.
Generated in 0.08 seconds at 8:10am on Apr 22, 2025 via server WEBX1.
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
More by this author