So this is it:
Ripped, torn and scattered across the room were fragments of a single sheet of lined paper. Just one sheet of the many random papers piled on the threadbare, once-cobalt carpet. Though each of those papers were somewhat different; smooth, intact and neatly stacked. Perhaps, what made that particular sheet so unlike the others was the navy inked scrawl of its contents.
A sole, bare window framed the iron drizzle of the world beyond, where an anoraked stranger could be observed approaching the flats, and cast a dreary grey light over the deserted room. Apart from those papers the room was virtually empty. It contained just a bed with covers tossed hurriedly over it and an ancient grey raincoat hung on the back of the door. The pockets of the coat were deep and full to bursting with scrunchled receipts, sticky wrappers from children’s sweets, the dried petals of a red rose and a single photograph. This photograph was the very last reminder of how things had been before that letter had been written.
From the entrance to the flats, into the iron drizzle of the outside world stepped a tall, dark figure. He whipped his flimsy anorak hood over his head, checked once again that he had the photograph safely hidden in his anorak pocket and without so much as a backward glance disappeared into the dusky wet of the backstreets.
From another doorway, further down the street, a pair of glistening, emerald eyes watched. Once they could be sure that the man had gone, a woman emerged. Bullets of rain soaked through her inappropriate evening dress, plastering her wavy, straw-blonde hair to her head as the fierce, angry cold gripped her bones. Air bit sharply at her throat causing her breathing to become short and ragged. She tugged her silky shawl tighter round her slight, shivering frame, wishing that she had taken the time to fetch her old, though comfortingly familiar raincoat. Returning to retrieve it would be too risky so she continued down the slippery street clutching her purse, with the second page securely concealed in its lining, close to her. So delighted that she had managed to retain that vital evidence, she had forgotten about the photograph.
The lock on the door of the deserted flat was now swung wide to reveal a scene of devastation. Hundreds of papers had been hurled in fury from their previous order. The mattress from the bed had been shoved against a wall in desperation. The old, grey raincoat lay discarded on the floor with receipts, wrappers and rose petals scattered together like autumn leaves.
In the distant labyrinth of drenched, gloomy streets the distinct wail of a police car could be heard. The tall, dark figure stiffened momentarily. He darted urgently into the door of a local pub. There he instantly melted into the safe mêlée of punters. Attempting to keep his face shielded by his insubstantial hood he snaked his way towards a table at the back where a rat-like man awaited him.
Silently he placed the photograph face-up on the table between them and returned his skeletal, nicotine-stained hand to his anorak pocket.
A chubby, smiling face, with a shock of curly honey-blond hair was punctuated by the sparkling, green eyes. The diminutive figure was captured standing in a garden of radiant red roses, his hands outstretched in an attempt to grasp the camera. Carefully turning the photo over an inky navy scrawl summarised the moment ‘Dillon, two, St.Francis Street’. The rodent like man cackled a grating chittery noise, his brain buzzing with thoughts of revenge. With this snippet of seemingly insignificant information they could ruin her, something they had failed to do with the letter
Monday, 4 February 2008
Monday, 28 January 2008
Castaway
The ocean is one thing I can write quite a lot about and I find interesting, so I felt I would have to do a poem on this topic.
The vast ocean never ending,
No sign of life his mind bending,
A pin prick on the blue sheet of the world,
His lengthy imagination becoming unfurled,
So thirsty yet so much water,
His body coming ever hotter,
The bright sun is the burning eye of the sky,
Looking down as the oblivious traveller dies,
His floating grave carried away,
Never found until one black day.
The vast ocean never ending,
No sign of life his mind bending,
A pin prick on the blue sheet of the world,
His lengthy imagination becoming unfurled,
So thirsty yet so much water,
His body coming ever hotter,
The bright sun is the burning eye of the sky,
Looking down as the oblivious traveller dies,
His floating grave carried away,
Never found until one black day.
storm and snow
I've done the last two poems in my water cycle thing now. Here's the fourth part, which involves a storm:
Cold and wet,
A lonely raindrop falls through the dark.
The earth rises up to meet it, desiring
To burst the droplet.
The sky is black and menacing,
Occasionally streaked with a sudden ribbon of
Angry electricity.
Wind whistles discordantly,
Rustling the feeble treetops and providing warning
Too late.
A colossal anvil floats in the air
Like a mountain freed from the shackles of the earth.
In fury it cries.
Its tears crash down endlessly,
Flooding what lies below
As always.
Blank and lost,
The raindrop makes its way down.
I fall to meet the earth, desiring
To forget.
This last one is about snow, and in a way, finishes off the story that is vaguely (very vaguely) told in the others.
Winter has returned and the snow is falling,
Drifting into place atop the mountains.
Fresh snow, light and pure;
And old, harsh snow,
Made from salty drops in constant motion.
Together they form a rich white carpet,
Each unique snowflake shining.
The stark jet spikes
And mesmerising ivory layer
Remind distant dwellers of old photographs.
For one ashen speck falling dismally,
This is the end of a journey.
But for the graceful
Virgin shower all around,
The very same voyage has yet to start.
In the spring, all of the snow will melt,
For it is the time for new beginnings.
This winter's snow
Will leave the peaks,
As the old water soaks into the earth.
Sorry none of them have titles yet!
Cold and wet,
A lonely raindrop falls through the dark.
The earth rises up to meet it, desiring
To burst the droplet.
The sky is black and menacing,
Occasionally streaked with a sudden ribbon of
Angry electricity.
Wind whistles discordantly,
Rustling the feeble treetops and providing warning
Too late.
A colossal anvil floats in the air
Like a mountain freed from the shackles of the earth.
In fury it cries.
Its tears crash down endlessly,
Flooding what lies below
As always.
Blank and lost,
The raindrop makes its way down.
I fall to meet the earth, desiring
To forget.
This last one is about snow, and in a way, finishes off the story that is vaguely (very vaguely) told in the others.
Winter has returned and the snow is falling,
Drifting into place atop the mountains.
Fresh snow, light and pure;
And old, harsh snow,
Made from salty drops in constant motion.
Together they form a rich white carpet,
Each unique snowflake shining.
The stark jet spikes
And mesmerising ivory layer
Remind distant dwellers of old photographs.
For one ashen speck falling dismally,
This is the end of a journey.
But for the graceful
Virgin shower all around,
The very same voyage has yet to start.
In the spring, all of the snow will melt,
For it is the time for new beginnings.
This winter's snow
Will leave the peaks,
As the old water soaks into the earth.
Sorry none of them have titles yet!
Friday, 25 January 2008
another poem
This one is about the sea. As with the others, I haven't decided on a title yet.
The deep blue stretches out endlessly,
Interspersed with miniscule whales
Just as its mirror image is dusted with clouds.
A hint of darkness lingers
Unseen on the horizon.
A frail fishing boat sits on the sapphire glass,
Illogically comfortable with the knowledge
That this thin layer may shatter,
Sending it down to a world
Of camouflage and lanterns.
Trust ensures balance.
A band of yellow separates the blue and green,
Shimmering softly in the sun.
The barrier formed by these grains of powdered rock
Is truly the final frontier.
And there is us.
So now that leaves me two more poems to write. The next one will involve a storm in some way.
The deep blue stretches out endlessly,
Interspersed with miniscule whales
Just as its mirror image is dusted with clouds.
A hint of darkness lingers
Unseen on the horizon.
A frail fishing boat sits on the sapphire glass,
Illogically comfortable with the knowledge
That this thin layer may shatter,
Sending it down to a world
Of camouflage and lanterns.
Trust ensures balance.
A band of yellow separates the blue and green,
Shimmering softly in the sun.
The barrier formed by these grains of powdered rock
Is truly the final frontier.
And there is us.
So now that leaves me two more poems to write. The next one will involve a storm in some way.
Thursday, 24 January 2008
fear
An idea based on one word.
There was just one memory, fear. Not like being scared of spiders or of embarrasing themselves but the kind of fear where they could not move, or think. The kind of fear where all they could remember was fear.
Lieing alone in the terrifying darkness this fear was understandable. They dared not breathe in case of being heard. Any noise could provoke anger, anger which they could not comprehend. It was not a rage which could be explained or rationalised. It once again was based on the memory of fear.
There was just one memory, fear. Not like being scared of spiders or of embarrasing themselves but the kind of fear where they could not move, or think. The kind of fear where all they could remember was fear.
Lieing alone in the terrifying darkness this fear was understandable. They dared not breathe in case of being heard. Any noise could provoke anger, anger which they could not comprehend. It was not a rage which could be explained or rationalised. It once again was based on the memory of fear.
Finished!
This is my finished stor, however it is a first draft and so i may make some changes. The reason for the full stops in certain words is because, since i am still in school, the school server will not let you type these words (it will ban you, lol) Once again comments and tips are welcome.
He shivered violently as the freezing winter water ran down his back. Looking behind him, he noticed he hadn't really covered much ground. Snow was everywhere and the trees of the forest that surrounded him where whispering quietly. Wendell Dawson was a seventeen year old average kid, although he hated to be called one, which was just coming back from a holiday camp. The busses for some reason or another had broken down and being as impulsive as he is, he decided to walk. A car passed and made fresh tracks in the white dust so that he could see the black of the Tarmac. He continued walking, preoccupied with his own thoughts. He didn't notice as a car pulled up beside him and he didn't notice as the driver rolled down the window, however he did notice when the driver shouted at the top of his lungs "Hey mister! You need a lift?" In fact, he gave a startled cry.
'Yeah, sure.' Wendell replied. He dived into the car escaping from the cold and very wet day. Although it didn't seem like it, he had been desperate for someone to stop and offer him a lift; however he was too nervous to stick out his thumb. He was afraid that some weirdo would pick him up. Even if that is what he got anyway. 'What's your name and where are you headed?' asked the driver.
'W-w-w-Wendell, W-Wendell Dawson and I'm going to, eh-eh- Edinburgh.'
'Got a slight stutter there Mac. That's a long way to be travelling mister and i can't even take you half the distance, I'm just headed past Carlisle myself. Why the heck are you hitching all the way to Edinburgh from here?' The car gave a slight lurch as it set off.
'It's a long story.' Sighed Wendell
'Well c'mon son i got time, and i am pretty sure you do to.' Smiled the driver
'My name's Carl, Carl Farbrook.' The gruesome stickiness of his Yankee accent was extremely annoying and was a sledge hammer on the head every time he breathed a word. He looked like he was in his fifties and the grey hair more than proved this fact.
'Well thanks C-c-Carl for the lift, it really does help.'
'Not a bother.' Carl replied still smiling. Wendell looked out of the window for a while, taking in the scenery of the countryside. It was extremely boring. Flat white everywhere. It had absolutely no character whatsoever. It was nothing like the highland and islands of Scotland where the jagged rocks jutted out of the ground. He had dosed of when Carl spoke again. 'So you know of any good jokes? I have a few good ones, would you like to here them?'
Wendell could tell he was just trying to get a conversation going and he felt like ripping out his tongue and slapping him with it for waking him up however, just to be polite. 'Yeah, sure...'
'Right, okay then.' He had just spoken the first line of the joke, and Wendell could tell it was going to be really bad. He personally thought that the best jokes where the unintentional ones. Not the jokes that where thought up by bald old men in their basements and then posted onto their crappy blogs somewhere on the vast plains of the internet super highway. When, luckily, he never got to hear the joke, at that moment Carl ran over a pheasant and after swearing loudly he decided that he should maybe concentrate on the road. He stayed silent for a quite a while.
'Hey, there is a small town coming up. Would you like to stop there for a while and get something to eat?' Asked Carl, being careful not to take his eyes off the road.
'Yeah, that sounds pretty good.' Wendell was extremely thankful for this as he desperately needed the toilet, as in, he was just about to ask him to pull over so that he could go al fresco. The car whined through the streets of the small town and came to a rather sudden stop outside a large hotel, it seemed a little out of proportion when you looked at the rest of the town. Just as Wendell had taken of his seat belt, Carl accelerated forwards and hammered on the break causing Wendell to come flying forwards. Resulting in a dull thud that echoed throughout the car and while Wendell was rubbing his forehead furiously, Carl was simply chuckling. 'Got you there mate!' Wendell felt like he was boiling over. It was the most annoying thing that anyone had ever done to him. He was imagining Carl looking over a cliff with himself behind him, holding a baseball bat. 'Jerk.' he mumbled under his breath. As he was getting out the car, muttering obscene things under his breath, a woman came over to him. She looked as though she had been hit by a bull and then a lorry and then a ten ton wrecking ball. She had the facial expression of a stone statue. 'Excuse me. Do you know where the bakery is? I don't live here and i can't find my way around.' She had an extremely high pitched voice that could make your teeth crack and it got even higher at the end of every sentence she spoke, as if she was constantly asking a question. She had bright, bright blonde hair and very dark emerald eyes. She had this look of an art fanatic, either that or she simply had a very weird sense in clothes. She was wearing a bright orange and green top accompanied by a dark yellow skirt. She-was-a-wacko. 'Erm, actually I-I do.' Although Wendell had never been to this town before, it was kind of obvious where the bakery was. He pointed directly behind the woman. 'Oh my, I'm sorry. I didn't see it there.' With that blank expression on her face , a bit like the face a moth would make when it sees a bright light, she turned around and walked straight into the glass door of the bakery. 'Ouch.' She yelped. Wendell was now trying very hard to stifle a laugh and luckily she had shuffled inside the store before he had started laughing out loud. He smiled then, she had really cheered him up.
As Wendell was walking back to the car Carl ran into him. ‘Hey! Hey Wendell. I have some bad news, there was an accident at my work and I need to go back the way we came from.’
‘Oh, that’s alright. I-I-I can just keep walking until I find someone else that’s w-w-willing to give me a lift.’ Wendell however was singing hallelujah, he was thinking of just ditching Carl but if there was one thing Wendell was a stickler for, it was manners.
‘I am really sorry mate.’ You could tell that Carl was really upset over this, however Wendell was really overjoyed. He could only think of a few moments that he had been happier, such as: When he lost his v.irginity, when his parents finally realised that they should just leave him alone and the first time he got d.runk -which was the first time he got l.aid as well-.
‘Well thank you for everything.’ Said Wendell with a smile
‘I am really sorry but I better get going.’ Said a muffled Carl clamouring into is corvette rather calmly.
He shivered violently as the freezing winter water ran down his back. Looking behind him, he noticed he hadn't really covered much ground. He didn’t notice as the car pulled up beside him.
‘Excuse me would you like a lift?’ Asked a very high pitched voice. Wendell turned to his right and recognised the bright orange and green top. He smiled, he knew this was going to be a fun car journey.
He shivered violently as the freezing winter water ran down his back. Looking behind him, he noticed he hadn't really covered much ground. Snow was everywhere and the trees of the forest that surrounded him where whispering quietly. Wendell Dawson was a seventeen year old average kid, although he hated to be called one, which was just coming back from a holiday camp. The busses for some reason or another had broken down and being as impulsive as he is, he decided to walk. A car passed and made fresh tracks in the white dust so that he could see the black of the Tarmac. He continued walking, preoccupied with his own thoughts. He didn't notice as a car pulled up beside him and he didn't notice as the driver rolled down the window, however he did notice when the driver shouted at the top of his lungs "Hey mister! You need a lift?" In fact, he gave a startled cry.
'Yeah, sure.' Wendell replied. He dived into the car escaping from the cold and very wet day. Although it didn't seem like it, he had been desperate for someone to stop and offer him a lift; however he was too nervous to stick out his thumb. He was afraid that some weirdo would pick him up. Even if that is what he got anyway. 'What's your name and where are you headed?' asked the driver.
'W-w-w-Wendell, W-Wendell Dawson and I'm going to, eh-eh- Edinburgh.'
'Got a slight stutter there Mac. That's a long way to be travelling mister and i can't even take you half the distance, I'm just headed past Carlisle myself. Why the heck are you hitching all the way to Edinburgh from here?' The car gave a slight lurch as it set off.
'It's a long story.' Sighed Wendell
'Well c'mon son i got time, and i am pretty sure you do to.' Smiled the driver
'My name's Carl, Carl Farbrook.' The gruesome stickiness of his Yankee accent was extremely annoying and was a sledge hammer on the head every time he breathed a word. He looked like he was in his fifties and the grey hair more than proved this fact.
'Well thanks C-c-Carl for the lift, it really does help.'
'Not a bother.' Carl replied still smiling. Wendell looked out of the window for a while, taking in the scenery of the countryside. It was extremely boring. Flat white everywhere. It had absolutely no character whatsoever. It was nothing like the highland and islands of Scotland where the jagged rocks jutted out of the ground. He had dosed of when Carl spoke again. 'So you know of any good jokes? I have a few good ones, would you like to here them?'
Wendell could tell he was just trying to get a conversation going and he felt like ripping out his tongue and slapping him with it for waking him up however, just to be polite. 'Yeah, sure...'
'Right, okay then.' He had just spoken the first line of the joke, and Wendell could tell it was going to be really bad. He personally thought that the best jokes where the unintentional ones. Not the jokes that where thought up by bald old men in their basements and then posted onto their crappy blogs somewhere on the vast plains of the internet super highway. When, luckily, he never got to hear the joke, at that moment Carl ran over a pheasant and after swearing loudly he decided that he should maybe concentrate on the road. He stayed silent for a quite a while.
'Hey, there is a small town coming up. Would you like to stop there for a while and get something to eat?' Asked Carl, being careful not to take his eyes off the road.
'Yeah, that sounds pretty good.' Wendell was extremely thankful for this as he desperately needed the toilet, as in, he was just about to ask him to pull over so that he could go al fresco. The car whined through the streets of the small town and came to a rather sudden stop outside a large hotel, it seemed a little out of proportion when you looked at the rest of the town. Just as Wendell had taken of his seat belt, Carl accelerated forwards and hammered on the break causing Wendell to come flying forwards. Resulting in a dull thud that echoed throughout the car and while Wendell was rubbing his forehead furiously, Carl was simply chuckling. 'Got you there mate!' Wendell felt like he was boiling over. It was the most annoying thing that anyone had ever done to him. He was imagining Carl looking over a cliff with himself behind him, holding a baseball bat. 'Jerk.' he mumbled under his breath. As he was getting out the car, muttering obscene things under his breath, a woman came over to him. She looked as though she had been hit by a bull and then a lorry and then a ten ton wrecking ball. She had the facial expression of a stone statue. 'Excuse me. Do you know where the bakery is? I don't live here and i can't find my way around.' She had an extremely high pitched voice that could make your teeth crack and it got even higher at the end of every sentence she spoke, as if she was constantly asking a question. She had bright, bright blonde hair and very dark emerald eyes. She had this look of an art fanatic, either that or she simply had a very weird sense in clothes. She was wearing a bright orange and green top accompanied by a dark yellow skirt. She-was-a-wacko. 'Erm, actually I-I do.' Although Wendell had never been to this town before, it was kind of obvious where the bakery was. He pointed directly behind the woman. 'Oh my, I'm sorry. I didn't see it there.' With that blank expression on her face , a bit like the face a moth would make when it sees a bright light, she turned around and walked straight into the glass door of the bakery. 'Ouch.' She yelped. Wendell was now trying very hard to stifle a laugh and luckily she had shuffled inside the store before he had started laughing out loud. He smiled then, she had really cheered him up.
As Wendell was walking back to the car Carl ran into him. ‘Hey! Hey Wendell. I have some bad news, there was an accident at my work and I need to go back the way we came from.’
‘Oh, that’s alright. I-I-I can just keep walking until I find someone else that’s w-w-willing to give me a lift.’ Wendell however was singing hallelujah, he was thinking of just ditching Carl but if there was one thing Wendell was a stickler for, it was manners.
‘I am really sorry mate.’ You could tell that Carl was really upset over this, however Wendell was really overjoyed. He could only think of a few moments that he had been happier, such as: When he lost his v.irginity, when his parents finally realised that they should just leave him alone and the first time he got d.runk -which was the first time he got l.aid as well-.
‘Well thank you for everything.’ Said Wendell with a smile
‘I am really sorry but I better get going.’ Said a muffled Carl clamouring into is corvette rather calmly.
He shivered violently as the freezing winter water ran down his back. Looking behind him, he noticed he hadn't really covered much ground. He didn’t notice as the car pulled up beside him.
‘Excuse me would you like a lift?’ Asked a very high pitched voice. Wendell turned to his right and recognised the bright orange and green top. He smiled, he knew this was going to be a fun car journey.
Agoraphobia
I made up this poem when I heard the meaning of this word from a friend!
Testosterone building mind racing,
Eyes flitting with what he is facing,
Such a contrast to the calm air,
He must be alone to roam in his lair,
Inner turmoil of what he has done,
His path to doom cunningly spun,
But what should he care his prize in sight,
His chest all of a sudden tight,
A cloak of fear encloses him,
It drapes him limb by limb.
Testosterone building mind racing,
Eyes flitting with what he is facing,
Such a contrast to the calm air,
He must be alone to roam in his lair,
Inner turmoil of what he has done,
His path to doom cunningly spun,
But what should he care his prize in sight,
His chest all of a sudden tight,
A cloak of fear encloses him,
It drapes him limb by limb.
other ideas
Maybe a bit more character centered this time.
Every word they speak is always derected at me, not too me. Those words are always loud like the slamming of doors and cheery like morning cartoons. They treat me as though I am fragile as a china doll, seem terrified of making me cry. Oh, I can cry. I can howl like a wolf in a whistling wind and shed enough tears to fill the Nile but that's all only an act. i'm a great actor, me. Almost every day so far I have smiled and giggled when they say those sickly sweet lines. I have also learnt that its best to play dumb when they ask their questions because that way the unwanted enquiries sease. Enquiries that provoce memories, of times that didn't really happen, I'm sure, because not even the best story teller would think to tell such horrible, angry stories. maybe that's how i know the're true.
So bit different this time.
Every word they speak is always derected at me, not too me. Those words are always loud like the slamming of doors and cheery like morning cartoons. They treat me as though I am fragile as a china doll, seem terrified of making me cry. Oh, I can cry. I can howl like a wolf in a whistling wind and shed enough tears to fill the Nile but that's all only an act. i'm a great actor, me. Almost every day so far I have smiled and giggled when they say those sickly sweet lines. I have also learnt that its best to play dumb when they ask their questions because that way the unwanted enquiries sease. Enquiries that provoce memories, of times that didn't really happen, I'm sure, because not even the best story teller would think to tell such horrible, angry stories. maybe that's how i know the're true.
So bit different this time.
more
My creative piece has to be in by monday so I'm still trying out different story ideas before I finally decide on the final topic.
Fierce, angry cold snuck its way uninvited in through the neck of her jacket and gripped her bones. Air bit sharply at her throught causing her breath to become jagged as icicles. Tugging her insufficiant murky-brown jacket ever tighter round her slight frame she hurried along the slippery street.
From a top floor window a pair of stormy eyes watched. They saw how she dissapeared into the passanger seet of a blua volvo. They also noticed that same car turn the corner and leave her familiar street. What those eyes failed to observe was the bag she had dropped on the pavement. This was because almost as soon as it was dropped, a pair of sneaky, eager hands had retreived it. A pair of undeserving and dangerous hands.
Not so sure about this but the more ideas the beter. I could also adapt this to fit in with the original idea if that works.
Fierce, angry cold snuck its way uninvited in through the neck of her jacket and gripped her bones. Air bit sharply at her throught causing her breath to become jagged as icicles. Tugging her insufficiant murky-brown jacket ever tighter round her slight frame she hurried along the slippery street.
From a top floor window a pair of stormy eyes watched. They saw how she dissapeared into the passanger seet of a blua volvo. They also noticed that same car turn the corner and leave her familiar street. What those eyes failed to observe was the bag she had dropped on the pavement. This was because almost as soon as it was dropped, a pair of sneaky, eager hands had retreived it. A pair of undeserving and dangerous hands.
Not so sure about this but the more ideas the beter. I could also adapt this to fit in with the original idea if that works.
Wednesday, 23 January 2008
What I have so far, any tips?
Made a few changes to the wording and the story. Had a NAB recently and so didnt have much time to be working on this sadly. This is what i have so far.
He shivered violently as the freezing winter water ran down his back. Looking behind him, he noticed he hadn't really covered much ground. Snow was everywhere and the trees of the forest that surrounded him where whispering quietly. A car passed and made fresh tracks in the white dust so that he could see the black of the Tarmac. The boy continued walking, preoccupied with his own thoughts. He didn't notice as a car pulled up beside him and he didn't notice as the driver rolled down the window, however he did notice when the driver shouted at the top of his lungs "Hey mister! You need a lift?" In fact he gave a startled cry. 'Yeah, sure.' he replied. He dived into the car escaping from the cold and very wet day. Although it didn't seem like it, he had been desperate for someone to stop and offer him a lift, However he was to nervous to stick out his thumb. He was afraid that some weirdo would pick him up. 'What's your name and where are you headed?' asked the driver.
'W-w-w-Wendell, W-Wendell Dawson and I'm going to, Eh-eh- Edinburgh.'
'Got a slight stutter there Mac. That's a long way to be travelling mister and i can't even take you half the distance, I'm just headed past Carlisle myself. Why the heck are you hitching all the way to Edinburgh from here?' The car gave a slight lurch as it set off.
'It's a long story.' sighed Wendell
'well c'mon son i got time, and i am pretty sure you do to.' Smiled the driver 'My name's Carl, Carl Farbrook.' The Yankee accent that the had was extremely annoying.
'Well thanks C-c-Carl for the lift, it really does help.'
'Not a bother.' Carl replied still smiling. Wendell looked out of the window for a while taking in the scenery of the countryside. It was extremely boring. Flat white everywhere, it had absolutely no character whatsoever. He had dosed of when Carl started to speak again. 'So you know of any good jokes? I have a few good ones, would you like to here them?'
Wendell could tell he was just trying to get a conversation going and he felt like ripping his tongue out and slapping him with it for waking him up however just to be polite. 'Yeah, sure...'
'Right, okay then.' luckily he never got to hear the joke, at that moment he ran over a pheasant and after swearing loudly he concentrated on the road. He stayed silent for a while.
He shivered violently as the freezing winter water ran down his back. Looking behind him, he noticed he hadn't really covered much ground. Snow was everywhere and the trees of the forest that surrounded him where whispering quietly. A car passed and made fresh tracks in the white dust so that he could see the black of the Tarmac. The boy continued walking, preoccupied with his own thoughts. He didn't notice as a car pulled up beside him and he didn't notice as the driver rolled down the window, however he did notice when the driver shouted at the top of his lungs "Hey mister! You need a lift?" In fact he gave a startled cry. 'Yeah, sure.' he replied. He dived into the car escaping from the cold and very wet day. Although it didn't seem like it, he had been desperate for someone to stop and offer him a lift, However he was to nervous to stick out his thumb. He was afraid that some weirdo would pick him up. 'What's your name and where are you headed?' asked the driver.
'W-w-w-Wendell, W-Wendell Dawson and I'm going to, Eh-eh- Edinburgh.'
'Got a slight stutter there Mac. That's a long way to be travelling mister and i can't even take you half the distance, I'm just headed past Carlisle myself. Why the heck are you hitching all the way to Edinburgh from here?' The car gave a slight lurch as it set off.
'It's a long story.' sighed Wendell
'well c'mon son i got time, and i am pretty sure you do to.' Smiled the driver 'My name's Carl, Carl Farbrook.' The Yankee accent that the had was extremely annoying.
'Well thanks C-c-Carl for the lift, it really does help.'
'Not a bother.' Carl replied still smiling. Wendell looked out of the window for a while taking in the scenery of the countryside. It was extremely boring. Flat white everywhere, it had absolutely no character whatsoever. He had dosed of when Carl started to speak again. 'So you know of any good jokes? I have a few good ones, would you like to here them?'
Wendell could tell he was just trying to get a conversation going and he felt like ripping his tongue out and slapping him with it for waking him up however just to be polite. 'Yeah, sure...'
'Right, okay then.' luckily he never got to hear the joke, at that moment he ran over a pheasant and after swearing loudly he concentrated on the road. He stayed silent for a while.
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