Okay, so right now it is about 1:30 in the morning, and I am finally feeling like I might be able to sleep, when I realize that my pen (a fountain pen) may need a new ink cartridge. So I decide to quickly check it before I go to bed. I do so by grabbing a pad of scrap paper made from old exercise book parts that were never used. Not only do I find that, yes the pen does really need some new ink in it, but will do for the time being, but a piece of long forgotten creative writing that I think I did for practice before one of my GCSEs.
After giving it a quick read I feel a sense of both pride, and inspiration to improve the work. So here is my before and after.
First the 4-5 year old piece, then my improved version written not 5 minutes ago.
The attic door creaked open. Something rustled in the darkness. I stared but could see nothing beyond the vague shapes of old suitcases and boxes pile high. It smelt damp. Thick dust powdered every surface.
I carefully made my way forwards, balancing on the floor beams. I kept thinking I could put my foot through the plaster and fall straight into the room bellow. A cobweb brushed my face and I felt a sudden tickle of a spider crawl across my cheek.
I stopped at a pile of old camping equipment. It was a jumble of guy ropes, torn canvas, poles, and wooden pegs. Then I saw the hand, quite still and white. At first I thought it was marble. But then it moved.
The door to the attic was, to my dismay, right above my bed, and, on this night (a stormy one at that), it decided to open. I stared at it for a moment in disbelief only to hear something moving in the darkness. Unlike any rational or sane person I took this a cue to explore. So up I went.
In the darkness I could just about make out the vague, dark shapes of old suitcases and boxes piled high. The air was thick with dust, and yet somehow the place smelt damp.
Carefully I made my way forward, trying not to loose my footing on what little boarding there was. A cobweb brushed my face causing its eight legged occupant to scurry across my face, tickling me as it scrambled for safety. Something I should also have been seeking.
I stopped at the opposite end of the attic by a twisted heap of knotted mess on the floor. I knew it to be some old, unused camping gear and could just about make out some of the poles, ropes, the odd wooden peg, and a few bits of torn canvas poking out near the bottom. This however was not what had caught my attention. What had was much easier to see. It was white, and looked a bit like marble. Perfectly sculpted into an incredibly dainty hand. One that was sat slap bang in the center of the heap that was camping gear.
At least I thought it was marble, until I realized that the darker vein of material was actually a trickle of blood. Until the hand decided to move.
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