Famous Writers As Children
If I Did It
by O.J. Simpson (rights now owned by Goldman Family)
You think you know how it all went done. This seldom sane five year old that didn't go to bed on time last night copped your cookies from the jar. Well I hate you, butt head. I did not do it.
Why wasn't it me? Because if I did it, I would've had to grab a fork to get it out. Why? Look at my hands; they can't fit in that jar. I'll even demonstrate it for you... look! Nope, can't squeeze a hand through. And do you see any dirty forks around? Nope.
If I did it, I would need a juice box to complement it. However, mom didn't get any Juice this week.
If I did it, I would want to nap right afterwards. However, I stayed up past my bedtime.
If I did it, I would not have run away like I did when you found me eating cookies. Those were my cookies and I was protecting them from you. If I had stolen them from you, I would have given you your cookies back when you saw me with them.
So as you can clearly see, I did not do it.
A Taste for Popsicles
by George R. R. Martin
On a slight rise at the center of the playground stood the monkey bars, chilled by the silvery kiss of the grey autumn sun. The sky was bleak, and thin clouds moved swiftly south. A north wind blows, thought Ricky. Ill tidings, indeed.
He stood before the massive structure, flanked by sentries with rubber balls tucked beneath their arms. Underneath, partially shaded by the metal bars, stood the opened cardboard box of Popsicles. And standing on top, beet-faced and freckled, stood the Usurper. He was devouring one of the treats. Syrupy orange liquid trickled out between his pale lips and ran in runnels down his chin. His fingers were sticky with it. Shavings of flavored ice, carved off the Popsicle by his massive front teeth, plopped down to the dirt six feet below. He gazed at Ricky with cool hatred.
Off to one side of the playground, some boys were drilling at basketball. Their shouts and footfalls echoed off the empty swing sets. Gathered near them on the sidewalk were the girls, drawing hopscotch squares on the concrete with stubs of pink and yellow chalk. They were garbed in rough polyester skirts, emblazoned with the orange and black sigil of House Tigger.
Perched beside Usurper on the monkey bars was the wicked dwarf, hideous and stooped, half the height of normal children. The Kindergartener. His eyes were pale blue and dead as winter. He flashed Ricky a toothless grin. It had been the Kindergartener's idea to hoard the Popsicles and cast Ricky from the playground. This is his doing. He stole the mount and placed the blame on me. He is the cause of all this. Can they not see?
Unable to abide the dwarf's cunning smile, he turned instead to the Usurper. "I don't want your filthy Popsicles, craven!" he shouted, loud enough for all to hear. The girls ceased their toil, and the basketball players broke from their practice. All eyes fell upon the monkey bars.
The Usurper bit off a chunk of the Popsicle and crunched it between his teeth. "Perhaps you should have thought of that," he sneered, "before you rode off on my Big Wheel."
"Cast out the thief!" cried one of the sentries.
"Punch his nose!" said another.
The Usurper raised his hands to quell the clamor, and the playground fell silent. "There will be no blood here today. The thief is not worthy to feel the sting of our dodge balls. Let him wander the north side of town until the black kids find him. By the time they are finished, he will return begging for death."
"A king does not beg," Ricky said, with all the nobility he could muster.
"You are no king, beggar," said the Usurper. He waved to his sentries. "Remove him from my sight."
"Don't trouble yourselves." Ricky turned and picked his way over the pea gravel towards the edge of the playground. The wind chilled his bones. The girls watched him, their faces smeared with tears and chalk. They pitied him. Pitied! Yet still he allowed a smile play across his face. I'll have your Popsicles, Usurper, he swore to himself, and plant my seed in your maidens.
Myn trippe to Caunterbury
By Geoffrey Chaucer, age VIII
Myn mumme and ich didst wend afar
To Caunterbury, beset from a bar
Many travelers there we did ymeet
Fourteen in all, I saw but feet
The first in armor carrying a sword
Upon this pointe, ich was most bored
Ich felled to sleep, awoke en route
Whan my mother myn head didst smoote
Before us stood a man in blacke
Of beerd and lether he had no lacke
A villeyn wast he of countenance mean
His hair didst have a dreadful shene
Alas, alack, the nonnes did cry
Until the knight stepped forth, no lie
He took his sword to the villeynes necke
And blood did gush upon the trek
The villeyn did swoon and then wast ded
And later we shat upon his hed
And set about our merrye waye
And blessed Seinte Tomas to him we pray
And it did rayne and we were glad
For a man of godde had smote that cad.