How To Solve A Murder - For Toddlers

Prologue

(somewhat edited)

Eleanors POV

I wailed as my mother dragged me out of the sand pit. I knew that as soon as she found out Daniel had put me in there she would come and ruin my fun. Apparently, a 7 month year old shouldn't be trusted with sand. I mean, come on, I was mature! Anyway, her hands gripped me under her arm as she told off my 12 year old brother who was nice enough to let me play how I wanted. I found it unfair how he was being told off for this.

"Bad mummy." I slapped my mom's arm with my chubby baby hand.

"Why is mummy bad, baby girl?" She cooed at me. God, I wasn't a baby. Oh wait...

"Cuz Danny is good boy. Mummy is naughty." I struggled over my words, mentally telling my voice off. I guess I just wasn't used to English. My grunts and gurgles were understood by others of my age so why should I learn to speak like the blubbering idiots that talked to me as if I were some kind of dog? Was it because they thought my language was a mass of unorganised, meaningless sounds that my mouth made because I wasn't developed enough? No way.

"No. Danny is naughty because he put you in the sandpit. Sand isn't good for you." She pinched my cheek and I struggled to find the right words to tell her that sand cleaned out your digestive system but my babiness held me back.

"Meh," I grunted at her. What? I was 7 months old!

She put me down, closing the gate to the sandpit and letting me "run" free through the tall metal bars of the local school's playground. Well, my run was more like a weird penguin toddle but you can't blame me, my legs don't have much to work with.

"Oof." I grunted as I landed on the cushion of my diaper. Someone had run into me, clonking our foreheads and knocking us both over.

"Sorry," The person said (fair warning, the next conversation is in gurgle.)

"It's fine. My butt hurts." I leant forward and pushed myself off the ground, my eyes meeting two gorgeous blue iris'. "Well hello there." I may have been less than a year old but, come on, prospective husbands are everywhere, right?

"Hi." He smiled, little dimples indenting his cheeks.

"What's your name?" I asked, my curious personality showing through.

"Logan."

"Doesn't suit you." I said immediately, being blatantly ignorant to society's rules of a proper conversation.

"Thanks? What's your name?" He recovered from my blunt insult and smiled again.

"I'm Eleanor. Call me Ellie." I grinned cheekily at him before tapping him on the shoulder and saying, "And you're it."

...................

After an intense match of tag we were both tired out from over using our tiny feet.

"How old are you?" Logan questioned, glancing at my form, sprawled out lazily in a tiny jumble on the grass.

"I'm 7 months, almost 8." His eyebrows shot up at my comment.

"Huh. Well I'm 1 and 1/4." He smiled smugly at me.

"Ogch," I scoffed. "Unfair."

He lazily lay beside me and our chubby figures flopped out together on the grassy hill underneath the hot summer sun.

"Hey, wanna go in the sand pit?" He asked me, standing up with great effort.

"I'm not allowed," I whined.

"Stick with me, Ellie, and follow my lead." He looked trustworthy enough so I got up and we toddled along to the pit of grainy white sand.

With his over-powering height he reached up and undid the latch on the gate, pushing it open for me.

"Ladies first," he said, standing back.

"Well, what are you waiting for then?" I grinned, laughing at my cheeky joke.

"Butt-head," he grumbled, giving me a little push in before following after.

I ran and jumped in the sand, sneezing as a fair amount landed in my nostrils.

"Maybe I should call you Sandy," He giggled and sat down in the mass of white grains.

"No." I plopped down beside him and we pushed sand into a pile in front of us.

"Holy poop holes, this isn't working," I gasped as our little "castle" collapsed yet again.

"It's not wet enough," he said, putting his finger to his chin in thought. "Ah! I've got it!"

"Got what?"

He leapt up and waddled over to his mother begging her for something. She visibly gave in and handed him a metal canister with squiggly designs all over it.

I straightened my pink butterfly tshirt and raised my eyebrows at him.

"Waterbottle," he said simply, and realization kicked in.

Using our minds as communication we poured the water on the sand at appropriate times, wetting it enough so we could build a sturdy pile of sand.

We hauled ourselves up to admire our work.

"It looks like a poo," I stated, voicing my thoughts.

"Agreed." He nodded. "Let's jump on it."

.............................

Hi okay so I started this when I was like twelve or something. Only a year or so ago but still, my writing has (hopefully) improved somewhat so bear with me, folks.

Also, this is a story about toddlers solving a murder, it's somewhat unrealistic.