Where you had to write a story that involved a museum and lemonade. I did not win…oh well!
“Hide, sweetie!” Janine whispered to her son, Billy. Billy hid behind the pink lemonade stand, pleading eyes staring at his mother. “Shh…”
“And what is this?” the apparent leader of the fascists said. “Pink lemonade? And over here? Hard lemonade? This is not lemonade!” He fired off a few rounds from his weapon, emphasizing his point.
“Please,” the tour guide, who had a gun to his head, said. “Please, it’s just a museum. There are kids here.”
“Ah, children whom you are corrupting! There is only one type of lemonade, and that is FRESH SQUEEZED IN WATER WITH PERHAPS A LITTLE SUGAR!” The leader shook his head, as if sad that he had to explain these facts. “Kill him.”
His men obeyed, firing one round into the tour guide’s temple. He fell like a sack of lemons.
“The very idea that you have a museum dedicated to all different kinds of lemonade is ludicrous. It has gone too far! All must die.”
His men killed another of the hostages. Only Billy remained hidden from the fascists. He saw nothing but heard the screams.
More shots went off, and it sounded to Billy like some people were fighting back. An opportunity opened. Billy ran toward the fire escape and rushed outside, his eyes hurting from the sudden brightness. A woman with a badge rushed to him, picked him up, carried him to an armored truck.
“How many are there, son?” an ugly, gruff man asked Billy. “What’s going on in there?”
“There’s three…I think,” Billy said. “They’re fighting. I’m scared! My mom!”
The gruff man turned and nodded to some others. “Send them in,” he said. Then, to Billy, “You did good, son. Better than most people could.”