Presumed Guilty – The Writeycorn

Presumed Guilty

Peck peck peck life as a chicken is soooooooo  boring the most interesting thing that happens in a chicken’s “life”  is when they die because you have to go through the test. The test tells you if, in the after-life you can carry on being the pet you are now, or basically be wild. I’m still my owner’s pet now in the after-life. If you are wondering if your owners are still alive, you spend your time in massive fields with endless amounts of food then, when they die if they go to the good place you teleport to them in their dream house. If they don’t have a garden, a garden will materialise. If your owner goes to the bad place you get put up for sale. When I went through the test I was guilty of killing a fox, but I was found not guilty.

Today I wrote  between 14:10 and 14:20.  I was prompted by an idea here.

Presumed Guilty – Lotta the Otter

Presumed Guilty

So on the 7.5.2019 I got framed for a murder.

‘But, it was not me!’ I screamed when they dragged me to the police station.

They answered, ‘It was almost certainly you because you lived with her and hated her.’

So I went straight to jail.

I wrote this in jail .

Grand Duke, please let me free!

Thank you for reading, Sir.

Yours faithfully,

Lotta The Otter


Today I wrote  between 13:00 and 13:10.  I was prompted by an idea here.

Presumed Guilty – Dead Deer

Presumed Guilty

The child sat motionless in the chair, behind the desk. It was their typical seat, third row back, toward the right. The lesson had been, also typically, a little unruly, the teacher sighing as yet another class was not quite in her control. It always felt, still, a little haphazard, she was clinging on by her fingertips. The target knowledge always felt undelivered.

In the noise, chaos, and desperate attempts to fulfil a role just out of her reach, she barely noticed him. A quiet student was, to be honest, a relief. It was not a pupil she saw there, rather a hole that didn’t need filling, didn’t need her attention.

So week after week he sat, motionless. Not studious, but apparently attentive. Then around half way through her second year with this class, he continued this motionless state after the bell had gone, along with it his classmates in a untidy and uncontrolled exit.

She looked up and began to call his name, and realised she couldn’t remember it. “I am”, she thought, depressingly, “a failing teacher.”

A quick glance in her book and the name came back to her. Still he didn’t respond. She approached him. He was dead.


The subsequent investigations, she carried out, into his class-mates suggested to one and all that she, herself, was in fact was guilty. She was tried and went down, finally free from the tyranny of her own failing classroom.


It was many many, years later, she was still doing time,  that it was discovered, this special form of suicide. His hidden writings, found when his parents finally gave up the misery of life without an only child, and the house was sold. The teacher was presumed guilty, but in fact he had chosen to bore himself to death. He finally achieved this difficult endeavour in one of her – oh so very, very, dull – lessons.

Yet now she is presumed innocent, perhaps.


Today I wrote  between 13:00 and 13:10.  I was prompted by an idea here.

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