Below you will find the results of my having challenged myself for a number of days to write a short story with a beginning and middle and an end inside of 30 minutes. Here is what I came up with. I hope you like it.
Despite their paltry means and plainly limited intelligence, Jonathan and Martha Kent were determined to make sure their adopted son, Clark, had every advantage in life. Through personal industry and canny manipulation of the family’s silverware collection, they were able to generate sufficient funds to send Young Clark to Dorking, a private all-boy’s school located in nearby Bigton and affiliated with The Methodists.
Young Clark adapted very well to his new surroundings. An earnest boy with a muscular interest in justice, The American Way and truth, he dived headlong into Dorking’s well-respected athletic program – which was the best in the Mid-west and not inferior to any found in the East. Clark excelled at running, jumping, leaping, swimming, gymnastics, foot-ball, base-ball, cricket, hockey, wrestling and boxing. Clark was so adept at fisticuffs that the other students refused to meet him in the ring, and Young Clark was forced to batter the custodial staff and local tramps.
In addition, Young Clark was renowned for the speed in which he could run the school flag up the pole in the mornings, and for his ability to extinguish modest fires using only the power of his lungs.
Such a remarkable lad soon ran afoul of envious students. “Irish” Mickey O’Flaherty and “Irish” Paddy O’Sullivan were roughneck boys attending Dorking on The Hibernian Scholarship established by Pope Leo XIII. The grant indicated that certain boys who could count to 10 without erupting into profanity or invoking Saint Hubertus would be allowed to attend the school, provided they stayed in Gethsemane, a special dormitory located across town and built specifically for Romists.
Young Clark has made every effort to win the friendship of O’Flaherty and O’Sullivan, offering them boiled potatoes and speaking to them in Latin. O’Flaherty, who, at 52, was one of the oldest boys on campus and who should have developed a certain maturity, rejected Clark’s friendly gestures. He and O’Sullivan clouted Young Clark on the head with a board with nail in it on more than one occasion, to mysteriously little effect.
One morning, after a spirited game of Bury The Chinaman, Young Clark and his chum were quaffing lime rickeys at the off campus spa.
O’Flaherty kicked open the door and brazenly adjusted the suspenders on the barrel he wore around his trunk!
“Fi,” ejaculated O’Flaherty!
“Take that back,” retorted Young Clark!
Instantly, O’Sullivan emerged from behind the medicinal leech tank with a blunderbuss! He pointed the dangerous machine at Young Clark and it disgorged an inky cloud of deadly buckshot.
The scalding metal killed several of Young Clark’s classmates, but – no fear! – our hero was uninjured.
“Give me that,” declared Clark, tearing off one of O’Sullivan’s arms! He instantly compressed the blunderbuss’s mouth into a useless metal slot.
O’Flaherty was, by now, praying feverishly to Saint Jude Thaddeus.
Young Clark leapt the length of the wooden floor, and was about to permanently compress O’Flaherty’s head deep into his shoulders, when the front door flew open.
An imposing man stood in front of Young Clark Kent!
“Great Caesar’s Ghost,” the man shouted!
Clark recognized him immediately!