“The Secret Life of Walter Mitty” Narrative

In one swift movement, the firing squad raised their guns. If they were to kill Walter Mitty, they were not going to have the satisfaction of seeing him grovel. Walter had moved so that he was leaning against the wall in an almost careless way and stood tall as the guns began to fire. One by one he felt the bullets hit him.

“Sir? Are you alright?” Bewildered, Walter Mitty looked up to face a tall, lanky man dressed in a long overcoat.

“I…” he began, before realizing that he could not possibly explain the reason he was lying against a stone wall being pelted by the hail that was coming down.

The man extended his arm to pull Walter Mitty to his feet. Slowly, they walked under the cover of a large umbrella back to the drugstore entrance.

“Thank you,” muttered Walter Mitty.

“Of course,” was the man’s reply before he spun around and swiftly walked away.

Walter Mitty stood in the cover of the drugstore entrance, watching the hail slowly turn back to rain. He glanced occasionally at the door, wondering when his wife was to come out of the store.

“I got it,” announced Mrs. Mitty as she came out of the store. “You will not believe the amount of people that were in the store. Honestly, it is like people have nothing better to do than shop.”

Nodding absentmindedly, Walter Mitty fell in step with his wife as they walked back towards the parking lot. As they walked, he half-heartedly listened as his wife talked about the neighbourhood gossip.

“Oh, Walter. Look at those children. Are they not adorable?”

Walter glanced up to see a group of children hiding in a large metal tunnel on the playground. Each one had an assortment of building blocks that they were using to build small guns. A dark haired boy caught sight of Walter Mitty and aimed his gun in his direction. …

“Keep walking,” a voice snapped. The cold muzzle of a small handgun pressed against Mitty’s bare neck.

“The captain wants the guns and missiles built by tomorrow morning. I would not disappoint him if I were you,” another man growled.

Mitty walked along the empty corridor with his head down. His heart heavy with guilt. He knew that if the weapons were built, there was no way that the United States would remain untouched. They rounded the corner and the guard pushed open the heavy metal door. He shoved Mitty into the room and turned on the solitary lamp before slamming the door shut behind him. Mitty sighed and faced his large metal creations. He knew that in about an hour the missiles could be finished. He also knew that the guards were very aware of this fact. Ignoring the missile, he walked to the far corner and uncovered a small tin boat. Mitty threw one last glance over his shoulder before opening a hidden compartment to pull out a large motor he had built two days prior. He carefully attached the motor to the back of the boat and placed it on a makeshift trailer. He then grabbed the only gun that was fully functional and tucked it into his belt. All feelings of distraught had vanished as he polished off one weapon at a time, making them appear as though they were complete. Almost on cue, the door swung open to reveal two large men.

“I have finished,” Mitty declared while gesturing to his work.

“Evidently,” replied one of the men in a disdainful tone.

Mitty nodded and watched as they shut the door and marched towards the upper deck to retrieve their captain. Not wasting any time, Mitty knelt in front of the door and with a couple decisive movements he picked the lock. Heaving the door open, Mitty pulled his boat out of the room and as quietly as he could, he made his way towards the ship’s deck.

“What do you think you are doing?” shouted a guard.

Without hesitation, Mitty spun around and pulled the trigger on the gun. The gunshot echoed through the ship, and the previously calm crew erupted into pandemonium. Walter Mitty heard the hundreds of men come rushing towards the sound. He pivoted his boat trailer and ran it straight into the nearest door causing it to swing wide open.

“Walter Mitty, you have nowhere to run!” thundered the ship’s captain.

Mitty turned to face the crowd, a derisive smile playing on his lips. Each guard was holding a gun Mitty had made. The guns that were not made to shoot.

“Actually Captain. I do.”

And with one powerful motion, Walter Mitty pushed his boat off of the edge of the ship, following it into the crashing waves below.

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