Prompts = Proud, Sup, Rescue
My children. Soft-hearted, bleating, pathetic creatures. Gods I despise them. How can I be proud of this lot?
They insist we “sup” and “dine”. Apparently the simple act of eating isn’t enough for them.
My eyes may be rheumy but they still inspire fear when they linger on any of the squishy sods. Watch how Steven squirms under it, how the veneer of confidence washes away so easily.
The rest watch, partly in horror and partly in humour; none dare rescue him, hoping to avoid being next.
As they jockey for my millions, I laugh; it’s going to charity.
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