Asha, age 14, wrote an amazing story and won a 1st place in our Young Writer Competition.
One night, the village was silent like a grave such that when a visitor would come he could thought that all villagers were dead. Suddenly a car arrived infront of our library. I scrutinised the car but it was not usual. Question without answer began to ran in my mind.
I wanted to pad my hoofs towards the car but my heart was judging me. I started trembling out of suspicion and fear. My hair at the back of my neck bristled and my knees buckled. Hardly had I wanted to go inside the house than the two men got outside the car. Their faces were nothing but a network of pimples and scars.
The men had dressed to kill. They had noses that stood on their faces like soldiers on a parade. They padded their hoofs towards a house of our chairman. A twinkling of an eye we heard gunshots. Panic stifled me in such a chaotic manner that I could not articulate any syllable. The villagers took tools ready to defend our village called Kidzangoni.
I took my arrow and a spear ready to assist my fellow. I carried myself towards a dark place and hide. Many villagers had been killed mercilessly. Tears rolled down my cheeks. Some villagers were injured writhed and grean in pain and agony. After a short period of time, one of the men passed nearby. My body started trembling like a rained chick. I shooted him. He fell down drifting in and out of consciousness and died uncontrollably.
By bad luck the other man was having a gun. The man got inside the car and coughed the engine. I decided to note the plate number of the car. My fellow villagers and I heard a scream of brakers. Before long police sirens were had from a distance. My heart melted with joy. The curious on-lookers walled uncontrollably at the sight of the patients .
The policemen arrived and asked the event. Nobody wanted to explainthen I volunteered to explain. I also decided to tell the plate number of the man.