I walk.

The sidewalk slips away from me like an unbalanced platter, the concrete a seal of different feet and footsteps, not one alike – not one the same.

I watch.

The leering eyes and sly whispers, words about me – but not to me – I want to know what they are talking about.

I panic.

A hand slips into my bag as I walk faster; making my way towards the school – I shout, and realize it is my own – my fingers touch the weapon.

I smile.

My friends' are in the distance, talking to one another, laughing – laughing at me?

I lift the gun.

My voice cries out above the crowd and people dive and scream when they see the object in my hands. A gun that is only seconds away from being fired – my voice rings out 'I am the angel of death' my friends are crying, yelling screaming – and I am laughing.

I fire.

The gun shots its' feeble noise into the air, and there is silence.

I laugh.

My friends look at me with wide eyes.

I run.

Perhaps it wasn't a good idea to freak my friends' out with a gun.

I laugh harder.

When my friends' find out what the gun is made of and come charging after me as I run and laugh, gasping for breath – tears running down my face as I crack up with howling laughter – still choking on the noises from my mouth as they reach me and pummel me to the ground.

That day was a classic.

But perhaps it wasn't a good idea to freak my friends out with a plastic toy gun.

(This actually happened one day at school, and has been a classic ever since - from then on, everyone brings a plastic gun to school)