It is a tough assignment for a child to know where a daydream ends and impossibility begins!
Ronny was playing by himself, which meant he was two tribes of Indians having a war.
"Bang," he muttered, firing an imaginary rifle. He decided that it was a time in history before the white people had sold the Indians any guns, and changed the rifle into a bow. "Wizzthunk," he substituted, mimicking from an Indian film on TV the graphic sound of an arrow striking flesh.
"Oof." He folded down onto the grass, moaning, "Uhhhooh ..." and relaxing into defeat and death.
"Want some chocolate milk, Ronny?" asked his mother's voice from the kitchen.
"No, thanks," he called back, climbing to his feet to be another man. "Wizzthunk, wizzthunk," he added to the flights of arrows as the best archer in the tribe. "Last arrow. Wizzzz," he said, missing one enemy for realism. He addressed another battling brave. "Who has more arrows? They are coming too close. No time—I'll have to use my knife." He drew the imaginary knife, ducking an arrow as it shot close.