EDIT: I'd just like to point out that these are my own pieces of work, and therefore they are 'my property'. So, for all the works below, it goes without saying, but I'm saying it, I do NOT give permission for them to be copied or reproduced anywhere, in any form (except of course, if you ask me, or it is featured on Obernewtyn.net somewhere that's okay). Thanks
I'd thought I'd share some pieces of work that were written at High School for English. I've always loved writing narratives at school, and did (and still do) get good grades for the work I hand up. But obviously there is a big different between work done at High School to professional writing or even good novice writing. Maybe sometime soon I'll be inspired enough to write outside of school, but first I am in the process of writing another short story for school (must start that...).
So I've decided to share my latest piece, which was written last year for a school competition, and it had to be 750 words, and include similes, metaphors, etc, all the usual stuff. I didn't win the competition, but my English teacher, who was renowned for being the harshest marker at the school, as she was the English coordinator at the time, gave it full marks, and entered it into the competition from her class, so I'm happy about that. This is one of the shortest stories I've ever written (excluding 50 word stories from Year 9, when my teacher made us do a lot of creative writing, and I'll probably share some of that stuff later, best year ever!), I hope you all enjoy it. Feel free to critique it, I wouldn't say it is my favourite piece I've written, but I still find it interesting.
My favourite song in the world ends and I sit up and open my eyes, a satisfied smile present on my face. As I glance around, the peeling paint on the walls, the ugly curtains bordering an open window, the tacky ‘decorations’, and assorted clutter fill my eye. However it is the big red clock that catches my attention the most. Its hands show 4:30. I realise the significance of this time and reluctantly remove my headphones. The red iPod they are connected to, shows its age in my hand. I go over and open the already open window further, allowing a feeble breeze to enter, trying unsuccessfully to cool the room fractionally.
I wander down the hall to the bedroom. As most bedrooms do, this one paints a picture of its inhabitants better than any other room, though they too can tell you a lot about a person. I pull out a blood-red shirt from the wardrobe and put it on, while inspecting the unsightly clash of my clothes in the mirror. No matter how hideous my clothes are right now, they feel fitting for the coming events, whatever they may be.
Again looking in the mirror, I explore my face. I certainly look worse for wear with my unkempt hair and unshaven face, but considering the circumstances, I could have come out looking a great deal worse. If I were to walk down the street however, I’m sure many people would avoid me like the plague or more accurately as if I had the plague. Even in a better state, I looked like someone who should not be crossed. I guess being substantially taller than average, and having broad shoulders and what appear to be ‘battle scars’, frightens people off. But by no means does that mean I was, or am, alone. Numerous people have stood by me, and my, less than favourable decisions, and sure there have been more than a few people I have crossed over the years, but that doesn’t make me hated.
Let’s hope that my unpleasant appearance doesn’t scare off my guests tonight, or would that be too easy? They’ll be here soon nevertheless. I had best be prepared, or else I’ll find myself caught off guard. Something that probably, tonight especially, will not end well. Leaving the bedroom, I find myself ready to set the table, in the dining room. Though my first instinct is to have a nice red tablecloth, that might clash a little too much with my lovely shirt, I choose a contrasting pale blue tablecloth. Finding the cutlery, I set the table for two. Having a couple of lit candles in the middle of the table always creates the perfect ambiance. The aromas from the kitchen, where I had cooked a meal a few hours ago, waft into the dining room and make me salivate. Some say I might be going to too much trouble, but I personally find that you can never be too extravagant. I take any opportunity to put on a show. Some of my more recent ‘events’ have been some of my best work; let’s see if tonight’s ranks as highly.
A car backfires in the distance, sounding like gunshot. But what’s that. It’s still going? Wait a minute, that’s my doorbell. That is seriously strange. Two sounds happening at the same time? It was like BANG-DONNNNG! But more importantly, who is at my door? I’m not expecting anyone; well I am, but not right now. Never have any of my guests been early. Never. They all know better than that. I guess there could be a first time for ever thing, but… I really hope that my first guest is not here yet. I am not quite ready and she certainly has caught me off guard, which is not good. But I had best not keep whoever is at my door waiting. I hurry over to the front door, expectant but curious. But before opening the door, I grab my handy pistol, which is always near the door and put it in my pocket, aiming it towards the door. Just in case. On opening the door I realise, I am disappointed or relieved or both. It is not either of my guests. It is just an ordinary, dull, waste-of-space, door-to-door salesperson trying to flog his wares. Before he can launch into his prepared, over-practised spiel I slam the door in his face. I have no time for him and even if I did have more time, I certainly wouldn’t waste it listening to him drivel on.
That little distraction has cost me valuable time. I’d better get a move on. I have so much to do, and probably not enough time. Nevertheless, things should not and cannot be rushed. I look at another clock on the wall, this one again is red, but this time it is nearly 6 o’clock. She should arrive shortly. Going back into the kitchen I remove the dinner I prepared earlier from the oven, and place on the table, ready to be served, the wonderful aromas tantalizing me. I feel that this night, shall have a happy ending.
One of the last things I do, before she arrives, is pour two lovely big glasses of wine. I seldom drink, but this meal goes oh so wonderfully with a glass of fine wine. The dark red liquid fills the glasses and a little splashes onto the tablecloth blemishing the blue. I know I should have picked the red one. Placing the bottle back onto the table, I examine my handiwork, feeling quite pleased with myself. And yet, I have a sneaking suspicion I have missed something. Oh, the carving knife, how could I forget that? Without it, the pièce de résistance would be incomplete.
“I see you’ve been expecting me,” a distinctly un-female voice erupts from behind my back, piercing the relative silence. A smile, partially of surprise but partially of awe, spread across on my lips, as I turned around.