Who ever thought that in our future, instead of flying cars and cities below the ocean, we'd be back to traveling on foot and horses and swords and bows and arrows.

When I was six months old, the great floods came. They wiped out everything. From unknown towns to New York City. The government came out and jammed as many people as possible into their aircraft’s...still,many were left behind to slowly drown with their families. My family was lucky enough to survive. After about four days the waters were gone. All the survivors were expected to help our land grow. Of course, the government sat back and did nothing, We eventually rebelled when I was about five, all 50,000 of us against 250 of them-we won.

Without anyone to rule, we went wild. You could get killed for a piece of bread.

At age seven I saw someone kill my older brother for a horse. At age ten, I had mastered skills no child should be capable: I threw knives, used a sword, did archery, and so on. These skills helped me get away with stealing food for my family; I was hardly one to cross after the first five people.

But things change.


A quick breeze, light sting, a trickle of blood. I came to a sudden stop, shook a knife from my sleeve, and threw toward the group of men chasing me. Hit. Another knife. Another hit. The others grew wise and moved behind trees; I took this chance to run. There were still around five men left. I heard their heavy footsteps once again, running full speed towards me. All this for two loaves of bread? They were getting closer, but not for long. Spotting my swinging branch ten yards ahead, I pushed myself faster, Reaching the branch, I cut the rope, still running, and ducked as it swung. Four of the men were hit by the spikes lodged into the branch, and there they hung. The last man ran around, forgetting about his comrades.

“You better hope I don't catch you,” he howled. “You're dead!”

Right as he yelled, a knife found its way into my side. Falling to my hands and knees, I gasped for air. I heard the man approach me, breathing like his lungs were going to explode, He snatched me up by the arm, slammed me against a nearby tree, and clamped his free hand around my throat. He reached for another knife. He looked at it, then held it to my cheek, tracing around, threatening the surface.

“Well looks like your luck has run out,” he snickered. “This will teach you to steal.”

I gasped for air, clawed his hands. I just couldn't get free. Then I remembered the knife in my side.

“You've got some skill for a twelve-year-old, but it won't matter when I'm done with you.”

I was quick. Tearing the knife out my skin and placing it deep into his chest. The man tumbled to the ground, trying to hang on to his life.

“I'm 15,” I said, “but that won't matter now that I'm done with you.” I removed the weapon from him and turned at the sound of his last breath. I walked home, hand over my wound, to feed my hungry family.