97Hey, this is a story I've been working on for a while. Please, if you're going to be constructive don't just say "Your story sucks" I don't understand what the point of that is. If you want to criticize tell me how to fix my problem. Oh yeah please no comments if I need spelling corrections, I'll get to them sooner or later….later more then sooner. I've read and reread what I have so far like 10 times already, and still I have glitches here and there. What have I got to say? The burdens of a writer never ends….An easier way to put it is: Damn those typos. Or Grammar errors should all go to hell… but hey we're all nice people so why don't we just curse the people who invented the English language and make up our own, so the grammar errors are actually correct…stupid thought I know.
The infamous Robin Hood lifted his hood for a moment to talk to John. They were giving away innocent looking clay pots to those who were paupers. Prince Jon's culprits were right under his guard's noses, giving away the money stolen from him.
"John, signal the men to start packing, it's time to go back. I'm staying for a time before coming home." John roughly clasped Robin's shoulder once before he left, a silent endearment.
The glare from the sun was pointing directly at him. He raised his arm in front of his face to wipe off the sticky sweat that was dripping from his forehead.
Suddenly something caught his eye, and made him want to laugh, but all that came out was a silent chuckle. For a thin boy was in the crowds cutting of the fat purses off of equally fat merchants'.
The thief was as thin as a willow branch and cut open the bulging purses with the ease and dexterity of a practiced and experienced thief. Her tongue licked her lips as she slowly pocketed the mass amount of coins and moved on to the next full purse.
She cut as many purses that would fill her pockets, and what coins she could not fit into her pockets she fit into the rags on her feet that could barely be considered shoes. Not a penny was dropped. Raggedy breeches were tied onto her waist by a thin cord, and a shirt that was much too big for her, stuffed into her breeches. She wore the cap of most street wandering boys, her matted hair stuffed into the cap. Her face was streak with dirt and soot.
She knew she hadn't had a decent bath in days. Her last decent bath was under the roof gutter scrubbing off the grime of the streets. All her earnings go to the group that she worked with, a group of five or six urchins off the streets. They use the amount to buy food, to feed their families, themselves, and to buy what are close enough to clothes. But she didn't have a family. No mother or father. Just some bastard left on the streets. Probably a mistake caused by a member of the whorehouse.
She was born in a temple, the priests and priestesses had told her date of birth. They thought it would be shaming their God to throw a babe out into the streets. The moment she could walk and partially talk, they threw her out into the streets. There she met her "family," the people she could always count on, the people that taught her how to survive.
I've never cried since I can remember. Just breathe and accept life as it is. I should buy myself some new stockings, after all today is my birthday.