We interrupt this blog for a bit of fiction from Connor (a finish-the-story assignment):

Suddenly, he tripped and the men were on top of him, hitting him repeatedly. When he was bruised and bloodied, they dragged him back to the cottage. They tied him to a stake in the front yard by his hands and feet so tight he could not move an inch.
The old woman came out and cackled madly. "In the morning, boy, in the morning," spittle going down her chin and her eyes wide and quite mad. The boy stared at her for a moment, fear in his eyes, before he drifted into unconsciousness.
When he woke up, he was being dragged away by the men. By now he was barely conscious and when they dropped him, he could barely move at all, let alone get away. They looked at him for a moment, then, grinning evilly, they said, "Good bye, boy." They pushed him down, and soon he was suffocating on dirt.
He struggled for a second, then he lived no more.