I enjoy writing. If I don't have a good book to read or a computer to play on, I can often be found scribbling furiously in a notebook supposedly devoted to school...A notebook with several classes of notes in it in addition to the latest unfinished short story written backwards from the back cover. Not that I write it from end to start, although that would be an interesting experiment. I just write a page, then continue onto the page to the left instead of the right. Most people are confused when they try to read this...
How many people write for pleasure?
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This summer when my holiday begins, I'll start writing my own novel that I have been planning in my mind for a while now. It's being more and more fleshed out each and every day. It's gonna be a blast!
I usually write to pass on a feeling. I imagine what people will feel like when they read it and carefully choose what style to write in to accomplish a certain feeling. These are often feelings of paranoia, confusion or depression.
I'm not a happy writer. There's just not enough feeling to grasp in a happy story.
I usually write to pass on a feeling. I imagine what people will feel like when they read it and carefully choose what style to write in to accomplish a certain feeling. These are often feelings of paranoia, confusion or depression.
I'm not a happy writer. There's just not enough feeling to grasp in a happy story.
The only thing I write is homework, and Haiku's.
Haiku's are awesome, and I'm decent at it.
Also I get A's on almost every text I write because it's so well written.
Haiku's are awesome, and I'm decent at it.
Also I get A's on almost every text I write because it's so well written.
Yes, I love writing. However, I only write when I have to (for school projects etc) since I can't come up with anything on my own. Those texts always turn into highly cynical texts about how mankind will eventually destroy itself and that pursuing your dream is useless...
A few nights ago, when I couldn't sleep, I actually got up and wrote a few lines though!
A few nights ago, when I couldn't sleep, I actually got up and wrote a few lines though!
I write novels, essays, reviews, personal reflection stuff, and currently working on a non-fiction book about video games as an artistic storytelling medium. Because I want to, and I think I have some good stuff to say. Sometimes.
So yes, I write for pleasure. I love writing: heck, I'm at a university majoring in writing.
So yes, I write for pleasure. I love writing: heck, I'm at a university majoring in writing.
That word doesn't exist on this siteKlarinette said:
Anyway...
You can have my English GCSE coursework. It's the only thing I've written that I like:
Forgetting
There was no wind and the fog hung in fine grey wisps just above the ground, disguising any people who might come to the grounds of the derelict, rotting manor house that brooded on its low hill. Tonight it was hiding the face of a man who stood beside the locked iron gate at the entrance to the house's gardens. He had his hood up against a light drizzle that had begun to fall and he shivered quickly, before seeming to focus again. There was no need to keep the gate locked since the fence beside it had long since given up in the battle with time and yielded an entrance easily large enough for a person to fit through. Visible behind the man, in the shallow river valley below the house, were the twinkling night-time lights of a small, rural settlement that was just large enough to be called a town. The beauty of the image was broken by an aged "For Sale" sign affixed to a skewed post hammered into the ground, and the mysterious trespasser looked up at the message as if in defiance before stepping through the gap in the fence.
If anyone from the town had known about the person at the house the night before, they would perhaps have thought it strange, but would not have spared it any further thought. Instead they put up stalls and bunting in preparation for market day, and engrossed themselves in the petty tasks and errands of everyday life. An old man wandered among the vendors, browsing, yet in no hurry to buy anything. He had nearly everything he wanted, so had little need to supplement his simple life with more. He was known well by no-one, but everyone recognised him. He had simply moved in to a cheap bungalow on the outskirts of the town around forty years previously, saying that he had been in the War and come back to find that his father, who was his only living relative, had died peacefully the year before. Now, with nothing better to occupy his time, he walked. With surprising stamina for someone of his age, he walked for hours each day in the low ridges and hills around the valley. Sometimes he walked to the house overlooking the valley, yet he never lingered there, only giving it a quick glance as he hurried past, as though he could not bring himself to interact with it.
In the same market place a small boy trotted happily among the stalls, browsing for something on which he could spend his pocket money. He had everything he needed but with so many products surrounding him that he wanted, felt as though he had no choice but to go back home with something cheap and new. He had come out as part of a family excursion but had had little difficulty detaching himself from it so he walked with the purpose of a boy who has escaped the tyrannical clutches of authority and now has the freedom to do what he wants for an hour or two. While looking around, he noticed that the old man was watching him with a gentle smile on his face. He kept watching and gave a nod, so the boy smiled back before wandering away to be lost in the crowd. The boy was recognised by most people in the village but was known mainly by his younger siblings and school friends, often going out on intrepid expeditions into the low valleys and hills around the town, exploring, or pretending to hunt wild deer. Even if there were any deer near the town, however, such groups always made more than enough noise to frighten away any animals near to them.
Several hours later, the market place was empty. The stalls were gone, replaced by used packaging and broken boxes. The noise and the atmosphere had changed too. The sun had almost set, and there was only the occasional muffled sentence heard through the walls and doors of the buildings all around the square as shopkeepers finished their jobs and went home; the lights in the windows went out one by one until only the sun was left, before it disappeared and left the place in near-darkness, illuminated only by the pale moonlight. A hooded shadow walked purposefully across the cobbles, making its way from one side to the other, its footsteps stark against the calm of the night. The person moved without fear of being seen, striding between small, well-kept gardens and picturesque stone houses, down narrow alleyways and over the bridge that spanned the two banks of the shallow river around which the town had developed. It made its way up the side of the valley into the night, along a narrow, yet well-trodden path worn into the grass of the fields around the town. Ahead, just visible in the silvery moonlight, lay the broken remains of the dead house, its splintered beams protruding into the air like the ribs of some great fallen beast.
Later that night, in the house, the old man was sitting on the floor of a room with only three walls. His hood was down since the night air was quite cool, but not unpleasantly cold, and there was no rain to make the hood useful. The unusually bright moonlight showed that the room had once been a bedroom, but at some point a long time ago the wall to the right of the doorway and part of the roof and floor had fallen outwards, leaving the remaining floor clear, and showing that the room was on the second storey. The remaining walls showed several streaks of paint that was once probably blue, but which had been eroded by time until it was almost indiscernible from the equally damaged wood panelled walls. The floor was also made of wood, of long oak planks held together with rusty nails and with several gaps revealing the floor below. There was a pigeon nesting in the remaining top corner in the wall that housed the doorway and it cooed its irritation loudly at the unexpected intruder. However, it soon forgot about him, ruffled its feathers, and settled down on its eggs. Below the nest was a broken iron bed frame and a mouldy mattress with rusted springs visible inside it. Both were covered in pigeon droppings. Apart from these was a crumbling chest and a cupboard with a door missing, but the old man ignored them. He simply sat against the wall with his head down and his knees drawn close to his body, staring at the floor.
The man had been in this position for some time when he heard noises outside the room; several sets of footsteps were shuffling around the house on the floor below. Now that he looked up, he saw that there were also weak beams of light from a low powered torch penetrating the darkness and casting odd shadows on the aged walls. He then heard voices as someone whispered loudly, "This is boring; let's split up to see if we can find anything interesting." This was followed by several murmurs of reluctant agreement and the torch light moved away to where the old man knew that the stairs were. He watched as it climbed them and then came around behind him where he couldn't see it. He heard the accompanying footsteps shuffle quietly from room to room until they reached in which he was sitting. The beam of the torch swept around, briefly illuminating the bed, wallpaper and cupboard before settling on him. The person behind the torch gasped in shock and the old man quickly spoke, the noises cutting through that silent, tense moment.
"Come here", said the old man, but the intruder did nothing.
"Who are you?", he finally replied, and his voice was quivering with fear. The old man responded by telling him:
"I won't harm you. Now turn that torch off and come here where I can see you. Mind the floor though; it's not very stable in places." This time the torch wielder obeyed and stepped cautiously into the room, staying close to the wall. "I can't see because of that light of yours now. You don't need it on a night like this anyway."
"I know you, you're from the town! I saw you today in the market place." The boy sounded pleased that he had remembered this, and with all fear forgotten, he sat down beside the man and continued.
"What are you doing here?"
"Remembering," came the simple reply.
"Remembering what?"
"Do you see that bed in the corner there?" asked the man. "That used to be my bed."
"But that's impossible; this house has been abandoned for hundreds of years!"
The old man chuckled heartily before continuing.
"No, no, of course not. I lived here only fifty-six years ago, when this house belonged to my family. A lot has changed since then."
"So why does nobody live here any more?"
"I lived here only as a child, before I moved out to get a job, but my father was a rich man who owned a steel working factory quite far away from here. I enjoyed my time here but he was away at the factory for most of the time so I did not see him much. My mother cared for me until she died when I was six years old so by the time I left, I didn't have much reason to stay here."
"So what did you do?" asked the boy inquisitively.
"I started off working for the factory that my father owned, but I didn't much like it; have you ever seen a metalworking factory?" The boy said that he hadn't. "I'm not surprised; there aren't many left now. They are very loud places, and there is never any peace in them. Most people who work in them go deaf later in life and I decided I wanted to do something else."
"What?"
"I joined the army." The boy looked up at him in amazement, for he had never met a soldier before, so even an ex-soldier was exciting. "You shouldn't look so envious, boy. The battlefield is a terrible place. I was reminded of the factory often out there, though no factory could ever be so deplorable. The noise of the guns all the time, the sight of your friends being killed before you, the mud and filth in the trenches and the bombs dropping all around; they all make it something you never forget. You wouldn't like it."
"So why are you here now? Why aren't you still in the army?"
"I'm too old. Anyway, even if I could I wouldn't want to stay in. I signed up for four years and I could only leave after that, which was also around when the war ended. Now I am here, living out the rest of my life in regret."
The boy looked puzzled by this. "Regret for what?" he asked.
"My father never wanted me to join the army. He said he couldn't bear to lose another member of his family. The last time I saw him alive we had a terrible argument about it and I think that may have been what ruined him."
"What happened?"
"He began to drink. His business collapsed and he had to sell the house. I believe it was the stress of not knowing how I was that caused him to die while I was away."
"Then how did the house get destroyed?"
"No-one wanted to buy it, but I am glad for that, as I would never want anyone to change it from how I remember it. Anyway, the house simply fell into disrepair, because fifty years is a long time for something to wear away."
The boy could not even imagine how long the house had been abandoned, as it was more than six times his age, so he just kept quiet as the old man continued.
"Now I just visit this building on most nights, as it's the closest I can get to the father who died not knowing where his son was, with nothing left."
The boy looked thoughtful for a few moments while the old man stared through the wall in front of them. Eventually he spoke. "You know, my Gran says it's always better to look forwards and live for the now, because you can't do anything about the then. She says too many people worry about things that they can't change." The old man continued to look ahead at the wall, so the boy continued. "I don't think it's impossible to forget, but you believe you can't, so you won't. I think you shouldn't completely ignore the past, just don't force yourself back into it so often." He paused, waiting for a reaction.
Suddenly there was a shout from elsewhere in the ruined house, "Come and see what I've found!"
In response to this, the boy looked up at the old man as though seeking permission for something, who returned his gaze and said, "Go. Join your friends, and try not to do too much damage."
The boy smiled, and for the first time he saw that the old man was smiling too. He left the room and ran off, torch beam bobbing in the darkness.
A week later, the market returned. There were stalls of all kinds, and nearly every type of product imaginable. An old man wandered among the vendors, browsing, but in no hurry to buy anything. He had everything he wanted and had no desire to supplement his simple life with more. He was known well by only one person, but everyone recognised him. He had been living in the town for longer than most people there had been alive. He had spent the previous week doing things he had not done for forty years, enjoying life, and hadn't once been to the house on the hill above the town. As he inspected a particular stall holder's wares, a young boy walked up beside him, having freed himself from the control of his family, and the pair shared a quick nod and a grin before marching off together into the crowd.
It's good by GCSE standards, but I'd like to know what you think of it.
I write on a blog, but I wouldn't call it blogging. To me, blogging is the twitter-esque "today i made a sandwich and had a nap and my cat sat on my lap and hey I made an unintentional rhyme" which isn't what I write about.
Basically what I do is give you my opinion on something, somewhere. I ranted about MW2, I talked about some childhood stories, I talked about Swine Flu, whatever. If you're at all interested, I'm over at http://enigmers.blogspot.com (if this counts as advertising or whatever and any staff member or mod doesn't like it, feel free to remove the link or tell me to do so)
Basically what I do is give you my opinion on something, somewhere. I ranted about MW2, I talked about some childhood stories, I talked about Swine Flu, whatever. If you're at all interested, I'm over at http://enigmers.blogspot.com (if this counts as advertising or whatever and any staff member or mod doesn't like it, feel free to remove the link or tell me to do so)
Used to do it all the time - wrote an 1138-page fantasy trilogy and a humor novel as well as dozens of short stories. Ran out of writing inspiration when I got roped into doing an insane project at work for over a year straight. Now that my schedule's calmed down again, I find myself more interested in writing music and playing guitar. But I'm sure eventually I'll pick up writing again.
HmmTharwen said:That word doesn't exist on this siteKlarinette said:
Anyway...
You can have my English GCSE coursework. It's the only thing I've written that I like:
Forgetting
There was no wind and the fog hung in fine grey wisps just above the ground, disguising any people who might come to the grounds of the derelict, rotting manor house that brooded on its low hill. Tonight it was hiding the face of a man who stood beside the locked iron gate at the entrance to the house's gardens. He had his hood up against a light drizzle that had begun to fall and he shivered quickly, before seeming to focus again. There was no need to keep the gate locked since the fence beside it had long since given up in the battle with time and yielded an entrance easily large enough for a person to fit through. Visible behind the man, in the shallow river valley below the house, were the twinkling night-time lights of a small, rural settlement that was just large enough to be called a town. The beauty of the image was broken by an aged "For Sale" sign affixed to a skewed post hammered into the ground, and the mysterious trespasser looked up at the message as if in defiance before stepping through the gap in the fence.
If anyone from the town had known about the person at the house the night before, they would perhaps have thought it strange, but would not have spared it any further thought. Instead they put up stalls and bunting in preparation for market day, and engrossed themselves in the petty tasks and errands of everyday life. An old man wandered among the vendors, browsing, yet in no hurry to buy anything. He had nearly everything he wanted, so had little need to supplement his simple life with more. He was known well by no-one, but everyone recognised him. He had simply moved in to a cheap bungalow on the outskirts of the town around forty years previously, saying that he had been in the War and come back to find that his father, who was his only living relative, had died peacefully the year before. Now, with nothing better to occupy his time, he walked. With surprising stamina for someone of his age, he walked for hours each day in the low ridges and hills around the valley. Sometimes he walked to the house overlooking the valley, yet he never lingered there, only giving it a quick glance as he hurried past, as though he could not bring himself to interact with it.
In the same market place a small boy trotted happily among the stalls, browsing for something on which he could spend his pocket money. He had everything he needed but with so many products surrounding him that he wanted, felt as though he had no choice but to go back home with something cheap and new. He had come out as part of a family excursion but had had little difficulty detaching himself from it so he walked with the purpose of a boy who has escaped the tyrannical clutches of authority and now has the freedom to do what he wants for an hour or two. While looking around, he noticed that the old man was watching him with a gentle smile on his face. He kept watching and gave a nod, so the boy smiled back before wandering away to be lost in the crowd. The boy was recognised by most people in the village but was known mainly by his younger siblings and school friends, often going out on intrepid expeditions into the low valleys and hills around the town, exploring, or pretending to hunt wild deer. Even if there were any deer near the town, however, such groups always made more than enough noise to frighten away any animals near to them.
Several hours later, the market place was empty. The stalls were gone, replaced by used packaging and broken boxes. The noise and the atmosphere had changed too. The sun had almost set, and there was only the occasional muffled sentence heard through the walls and doors of the buildings all around the square as shopkeepers finished their jobs and went home; the lights in the windows went out one by one until only the sun was left, before it disappeared and left the place in near-darkness, illuminated only by the pale moonlight. A hooded shadow walked purposefully across the cobbles, making its way from one side to the other, its footsteps stark against the calm of the night. The person moved without fear of being seen, striding between small, well-kept gardens and picturesque stone houses, down narrow alleyways and over the bridge that spanned the two banks of the shallow river around which the town had developed. It made its way up the side of the valley into the night, along a narrow, yet well-trodden path worn into the grass of the fields around the town. Ahead, just visible in the silvery moonlight, lay the broken remains of the dead house, its splintered beams protruding into the air like the ribs of some great fallen beast.
Later that night, in the house, the old man was sitting on the floor of a room with only three walls. His hood was down since the night air was quite cool, but not unpleasantly cold, and there was no rain to make the hood useful. The unusually bright moonlight showed that the room had once been a bedroom, but at some point a long time ago the wall to the right of the doorway and part of the roof and floor had fallen outwards, leaving the remaining floor clear, and showing that the room was on the second storey. The remaining walls showed several streaks of paint that was once probably blue, but which had been eroded by time until it was almost indiscernible from the equally damaged wood panelled walls. The floor was also made of wood, of long oak planks held together with rusty nails and with several gaps revealing the floor below. There was a pigeon nesting in the remaining top corner in the wall that housed the doorway and it cooed its irritation loudly at the unexpected intruder. However, it soon forgot about him, ruffled its feathers, and settled down on its eggs. Below the nest was a broken iron bed frame and a mouldy mattress with rusted springs visible inside it. Both were covered in pigeon droppings. Apart from these was a crumbling chest and a cupboard with a door missing, but the old man ignored them. He simply sat against the wall with his head down and his knees drawn close to his body, staring at the floor.
The man had been in this position for some time when he heard noises outside the room; several sets of footsteps were shuffling around the house on the floor below. Now that he looked up, he saw that there were also weak beams of light from a low powered torch penetrating the darkness and casting odd shadows on the aged walls. He then heard voices as someone whispered loudly, "This is boring; let's split up to see if we can find anything interesting." This was followed by several murmurs of reluctant agreement and the torch light moved away to where the old man knew that the stairs were. He watched as it climbed them and then came around behind him where he couldn't see it. He heard the accompanying footsteps shuffle quietly from room to room until they reached in which he was sitting. The beam of the torch swept around, briefly illuminating the bed, wallpaper and cupboard before settling on him. The person behind the torch gasped in shock and the old man quickly spoke, the noises cutting through that silent, tense moment.
"Come here", said the old man, but the intruder did nothing.
"Who are you?", he finally replied, and his voice was quivering with fear. The old man responded by telling him:
"I won't harm you. Now turn that torch off and come here where I can see you. Mind the floor though; it's not very stable in places." This time the torch wielder obeyed and stepped cautiously into the room, staying close to the wall. "I can't see because of that light of yours now. You don't need it on a night like this anyway."
"I know you, you're from the town! I saw you today in the market place." The boy sounded pleased that he had remembered this, and with all fear forgotten, he sat down beside the man and continued.
"What are you doing here?"
"Remembering," came the simple reply.
"Remembering what?"
"Do you see that bed in the corner there?" asked the man. "That used to be my bed."
"But that's impossible; this house has been abandoned for hundreds of years!"
The old man chuckled heartily before continuing.
"No, no, of course not. I lived here only fifty-six years ago, when this house belonged to my family. A lot has changed since then."
"So why does nobody live here any more?"
"I lived here only as a child, before I moved out to get a job, but my father was a rich man who owned a steel working factory quite far away from here. I enjoyed my time here but he was away at the factory for most of the time so I did not see him much. My mother cared for me until she died when I was six years old so by the time I left, I didn't have much reason to stay here."
"So what did you do?" asked the boy inquisitively.
"I started off working for the factory that my father owned, but I didn't much like it; have you ever seen a metalworking factory?" The boy said that he hadn't. "I'm not surprised; there aren't many left now. They are very loud places, and there is never any peace in them. Most people who work in them go deaf later in life and I decided I wanted to do something else."
"What?"
"I joined the army." The boy looked up at him in amazement, for he had never met a soldier before, so even an ex-soldier was exciting. "You shouldn't look so envious, boy. The battlefield is a terrible place. I was reminded of the factory often out there, though no factory could ever be so deplorable. The noise of the guns all the time, the sight of your friends being killed before you, the mud and filth in the trenches and the bombs dropping all around; they all make it something you never forget. You wouldn't like it."
"So why are you here now? Why aren't you still in the army?"
"I'm too old. Anyway, even if I could I wouldn't want to stay in. I signed up for four years and I could only leave after that, which was also around when the war ended. Now I am here, living out the rest of my life in regret."
The boy looked puzzled by this. "Regret for what?" he asked.
"My father never wanted me to join the army. He said he couldn't bear to lose another member of his family. The last time I saw him alive we had a terrible argument about it and I think that may have been what ruined him."
"What happened?"
"He began to drink. His business collapsed and he had to sell the house. I believe it was the stress of not knowing how I was that caused him to die while I was away."
"Then how did the house get destroyed?"
"No-one wanted to buy it, but I am glad for that, as I would never want anyone to change it from how I remember it. Anyway, the house simply fell into disrepair, because fifty years is a long time for something to wear away."
The boy could not even imagine how long the house had been abandoned, as it was more than six times his age, so he just kept quiet as the old man continued.
"Now I just visit this building on most nights, as it's the closest I can get to the father who died not knowing where his son was, with nothing left."
The boy looked thoughtful for a few moments while the old man stared through the wall in front of them. Eventually he spoke. "You know, my Gran says it's always better to look forwards and live for the now, because you can't do anything about the then. She says too many people worry about things that they can't change." The old man continued to look ahead at the wall, so the boy continued. "I don't think it's impossible to forget, but you believe you can't, so you won't. I think you shouldn't completely ignore the past, just don't force yourself back into it so often." He paused, waiting for a reaction.
Suddenly there was a shout from elsewhere in the ruined house, "Come and see what I've found!"
In response to this, the boy looked up at the old man as though seeking permission for something, who returned his gaze and said, "Go. Join your friends, and try not to do too much damage."
The boy smiled, and for the first time he saw that the old man was smiling too. He left the room and ran off, torch beam bobbing in the darkness.
A week later, the market returned. There were stalls of all kinds, and nearly every type of product imaginable. An old man wandered among the vendors, browsing, but in no hurry to buy anything. He had everything he wanted and had no desire to supplement his simple life with more. He was known well by only one person, but everyone recognised him. He had been living in the town for longer than most people there had been alive. He had spent the previous week doing things he had not done for forty years, enjoying life, and hadn't once been to the house on the hill above the town. As he inspected a particular stall holder's wares, a young boy walked up beside him, having freed himself from the control of his family, and the pair shared a quick nod and a grin before marching off together into the crowd.
It's good by GCSE standards, but I'd like to know what you think of it.
I rather enjoyed that. I like how descriptive it is; you get an idea of how things look, but it's not so concrete that there's no room for your own interpretation. Also, I like that you repeated the original paragraph, but changed it accordingly. Nice work! Very nice.
I'm a lot more eloquent writing than speaking, so I definitely enjoy the opportunity to sound...y'know, intelligent. Combine that with the fact that I'm one of three people my age who can (voluntarily) use the word "whithersoever" in a sentence, and you start to see why I've become such good buddies with my word processor.
In fact, in the interest of combining my two major passions...
That's right: I blog about videogames. On the internet. In the words of Erin Stout, I can taste your awe.
In fact, in the interest of combining my two major passions...
I've recently started a videogames blog. [http://intelligentgames.wordpress.com]
That's right: I blog about videogames. On the internet. In the words of Erin Stout, I can taste your awe.
Well I don't write any prose or anything, but I write a lot of silly songs for fun, and some more I'm hoping to play with a band in the summer. To me, music is just a different (and more sexy) language!
I love to write. I'm currently working on a novel that I've been working on for almost two years now. It's really therapeutic for me and helps me get my thoughts sorted out.
I thank you muchly.Klarinette said:HmmTharwen said:That word doesn't exist on this siteKlarinette said:
Anyway...
You can have my English GCSE coursework. It's the only thing I've written that I like:
Forgetting
There was no wind and the fog hung in fine grey wisps just above the ground, disguising any people who might come to the grounds of the derelict, rotting manor house that brooded on its low hill. Tonight it was hiding the face of a man who stood beside the locked iron gate at the entrance to the house's gardens. He had his hood up against a light drizzle that had begun to fall and he shivered quickly, before seeming to focus again. There was no need to keep the gate locked since the fence beside it had long since given up in the battle with time and yielded an entrance easily large enough for a person to fit through. Visible behind the man, in the shallow river valley below the house, were the twinkling night-time lights of a small, rural settlement that was just large enough to be called a town. The beauty of the image was broken by an aged "For Sale" sign affixed to a skewed post hammered into the ground, and the mysterious trespasser looked up at the message as if in defiance before stepping through the gap in the fence.
If anyone from the town had known about the person at the house the night before, they would perhaps have thought it strange, but would not have spared it any further thought. Instead they put up stalls and bunting in preparation for market day, and engrossed themselves in the petty tasks and errands of everyday life. An old man wandered among the vendors, browsing, yet in no hurry to buy anything. He had nearly everything he wanted, so had little need to supplement his simple life with more. He was known well by no-one, but everyone recognised him. He had simply moved in to a cheap bungalow on the outskirts of the town around forty years previously, saying that he had been in the War and come back to find that his father, who was his only living relative, had died peacefully the year before. Now, with nothing better to occupy his time, he walked. With surprising stamina for someone of his age, he walked for hours each day in the low ridges and hills around the valley. Sometimes he walked to the house overlooking the valley, yet he never lingered there, only giving it a quick glance as he hurried past, as though he could not bring himself to interact with it.
In the same market place a small boy trotted happily among the stalls, browsing for something on which he could spend his pocket money. He had everything he needed but with so many products surrounding him that he wanted, felt as though he had no choice but to go back home with something cheap and new. He had come out as part of a family excursion but had had little difficulty detaching himself from it so he walked with the purpose of a boy who has escaped the tyrannical clutches of authority and now has the freedom to do what he wants for an hour or two. While looking around, he noticed that the old man was watching him with a gentle smile on his face. He kept watching and gave a nod, so the boy smiled back before wandering away to be lost in the crowd. The boy was recognised by most people in the village but was known mainly by his younger siblings and school friends, often going out on intrepid expeditions into the low valleys and hills around the town, exploring, or pretending to hunt wild deer. Even if there were any deer near the town, however, such groups always made more than enough noise to frighten away any animals near to them.
Several hours later, the market place was empty. The stalls were gone, replaced by used packaging and broken boxes. The noise and the atmosphere had changed too. The sun had almost set, and there was only the occasional muffled sentence heard through the walls and doors of the buildings all around the square as shopkeepers finished their jobs and went home; the lights in the windows went out one by one until only the sun was left, before it disappeared and left the place in near-darkness, illuminated only by the pale moonlight. A hooded shadow walked purposefully across the cobbles, making its way from one side to the other, its footsteps stark against the calm of the night. The person moved without fear of being seen, striding between small, well-kept gardens and picturesque stone houses, down narrow alleyways and over the bridge that spanned the two banks of the shallow river around which the town had developed. It made its way up the side of the valley into the night, along a narrow, yet well-trodden path worn into the grass of the fields around the town. Ahead, just visible in the silvery moonlight, lay the broken remains of the dead house, its splintered beams protruding into the air like the ribs of some great fallen beast.
Later that night, in the house, the old man was sitting on the floor of a room with only three walls. His hood was down since the night air was quite cool, but not unpleasantly cold, and there was no rain to make the hood useful. The unusually bright moonlight showed that the room had once been a bedroom, but at some point a long time ago the wall to the right of the doorway and part of the roof and floor had fallen outwards, leaving the remaining floor clear, and showing that the room was on the second storey. The remaining walls showed several streaks of paint that was once probably blue, but which had been eroded by time until it was almost indiscernible from the equally damaged wood panelled walls. The floor was also made of wood, of long oak planks held together with rusty nails and with several gaps revealing the floor below. There was a pigeon nesting in the remaining top corner in the wall that housed the doorway and it cooed its irritation loudly at the unexpected intruder. However, it soon forgot about him, ruffled its feathers, and settled down on its eggs. Below the nest was a broken iron bed frame and a mouldy mattress with rusted springs visible inside it. Both were covered in pigeon droppings. Apart from these was a crumbling chest and a cupboard with a door missing, but the old man ignored them. He simply sat against the wall with his head down and his knees drawn close to his body, staring at the floor.
The man had been in this position for some time when he heard noises outside the room; several sets of footsteps were shuffling around the house on the floor below. Now that he looked up, he saw that there were also weak beams of light from a low powered torch penetrating the darkness and casting odd shadows on the aged walls. He then heard voices as someone whispered loudly, "This is boring; let's split up to see if we can find anything interesting." This was followed by several murmurs of reluctant agreement and the torch light moved away to where the old man knew that the stairs were. He watched as it climbed them and then came around behind him where he couldn't see it. He heard the accompanying footsteps shuffle quietly from room to room until they reached in which he was sitting. The beam of the torch swept around, briefly illuminating the bed, wallpaper and cupboard before settling on him. The person behind the torch gasped in shock and the old man quickly spoke, the noises cutting through that silent, tense moment.
"Come here", said the old man, but the intruder did nothing.
"Who are you?", he finally replied, and his voice was quivering with fear. The old man responded by telling him:
"I won't harm you. Now turn that torch off and come here where I can see you. Mind the floor though; it's not very stable in places." This time the torch wielder obeyed and stepped cautiously into the room, staying close to the wall. "I can't see because of that light of yours now. You don't need it on a night like this anyway."
"I know you, you're from the town! I saw you today in the market place." The boy sounded pleased that he had remembered this, and with all fear forgotten, he sat down beside the man and continued.
"What are you doing here?"
"Remembering," came the simple reply.
"Remembering what?"
"Do you see that bed in the corner there?" asked the man. "That used to be my bed."
"But that's impossible; this house has been abandoned for hundreds of years!"
The old man chuckled heartily before continuing.
"No, no, of course not. I lived here only fifty-six years ago, when this house belonged to my family. A lot has changed since then."
"So why does nobody live here any more?"
"I lived here only as a child, before I moved out to get a job, but my father was a rich man who owned a steel working factory quite far away from here. I enjoyed my time here but he was away at the factory for most of the time so I did not see him much. My mother cared for me until she died when I was six years old so by the time I left, I didn't have much reason to stay here."
"So what did you do?" asked the boy inquisitively.
"I started off working for the factory that my father owned, but I didn't much like it; have you ever seen a metalworking factory?" The boy said that he hadn't. "I'm not surprised; there aren't many left now. They are very loud places, and there is never any peace in them. Most people who work in them go deaf later in life and I decided I wanted to do something else."
"What?"
"I joined the army." The boy looked up at him in amazement, for he had never met a soldier before, so even an ex-soldier was exciting. "You shouldn't look so envious, boy. The battlefield is a terrible place. I was reminded of the factory often out there, though no factory could ever be so deplorable. The noise of the guns all the time, the sight of your friends being killed before you, the mud and filth in the trenches and the bombs dropping all around; they all make it something you never forget. You wouldn't like it."
"So why are you here now? Why aren't you still in the army?"
"I'm too old. Anyway, even if I could I wouldn't want to stay in. I signed up for four years and I could only leave after that, which was also around when the war ended. Now I am here, living out the rest of my life in regret."
The boy looked puzzled by this. "Regret for what?" he asked.
"My father never wanted me to join the army. He said he couldn't bear to lose another member of his family. The last time I saw him alive we had a terrible argument about it and I think that may have been what ruined him."
"What happened?"
"He began to drink. His business collapsed and he had to sell the house. I believe it was the stress of not knowing how I was that caused him to die while I was away."
"Then how did the house get destroyed?"
"No-one wanted to buy it, but I am glad for that, as I would never want anyone to change it from how I remember it. Anyway, the house simply fell into disrepair, because fifty years is a long time for something to wear away."
The boy could not even imagine how long the house had been abandoned, as it was more than six times his age, so he just kept quiet as the old man continued.
"Now I just visit this building on most nights, as it's the closest I can get to the father who died not knowing where his son was, with nothing left."
The boy looked thoughtful for a few moments while the old man stared through the wall in front of them. Eventually he spoke. "You know, my Gran says it's always better to look forwards and live for the now, because you can't do anything about the then. She says too many people worry about things that they can't change." The old man continued to look ahead at the wall, so the boy continued. "I don't think it's impossible to forget, but you believe you can't, so you won't. I think you shouldn't completely ignore the past, just don't force yourself back into it so often." He paused, waiting for a reaction.
Suddenly there was a shout from elsewhere in the ruined house, "Come and see what I've found!"
In response to this, the boy looked up at the old man as though seeking permission for something, who returned his gaze and said, "Go. Join your friends, and try not to do too much damage."
The boy smiled, and for the first time he saw that the old man was smiling too. He left the room and ran off, torch beam bobbing in the darkness.
A week later, the market returned. There were stalls of all kinds, and nearly every type of product imaginable. An old man wandered among the vendors, browsing, but in no hurry to buy anything. He had everything he wanted and had no desire to supplement his simple life with more. He was known well by only one person, but everyone recognised him. He had been living in the town for longer than most people there had been alive. He had spent the previous week doing things he had not done for forty years, enjoying life, and hadn't once been to the house on the hill above the town. As he inspected a particular stall holder's wares, a young boy walked up beside him, having freed himself from the control of his family, and the pair shared a quick nod and a grin before marching off together into the crowd.
It's good by GCSE standards, but I'd like to know what you think of it.
I write all the time. I'm only really awake at this time because I was working on my next novel. Poetry, songs, novels, short stories and novellas are my usual fields, but I'm looking into reviews and theatre as well.