an english creative writing essay
this was a creative writing essay I did a couple of years ago for part my secondary school english course.
It did pretty well when I handed it in. Anyway it's meant to be humorous so it'd be ince if you could give it a read and tell me whether you enjoyed it or not. Any critiques or suggestions are also welcome.
It isn't too long, only 1600 words.
btw reading long pieces of text on a forum isn't ideal so sorry if you have to strain your eyes. if there are any funny looking paragraphs it's because i'mm trying to double space it to make it easier to read.
it's a true story btw.
to any stalkers out there I changed the adress names.
Funnily enough, I had just been on a journey: a school trip walking around all the wettest, most boggy parts of the Lake District. By the end of it, I only had half a dry set of
clothes: my socks were wet; they made my feet cold. I said good bye to my friends and teachers and lined up for a cab since my parents couldn’t pick me up. I was greeted
by a long queue of people, a very long queue, the length of queue you would expect if half the train wanted taxis and they managed to get there before you. So I waited in
the dreary underground taxi queue while the dissonant sounds of trains leaving echoed around me.
The taxi driver I ended up with was quite old and already had completely white hair (what was left of it).
“Where will it be?” he said in a dead-pan voice.
“Oh umm Hutherland gardens in East Sheen, please,” I replied in my own annoyingly monotonous voice. Hutherland gardens was where my grandmother lived and it was where I
was told to go by my mother before the battery in my mobile ran out . He seemed to be quite friendly but that didn’t stop the distrust that had been programmed into me by
society from making me withdrawn and silent.
He did try a conversation; it was to be expected.
“ Just back from a school trip, eh?
“Yeah, we went to the Lake District”
“Ooh very nice” That was about all he could manage however and an incredibly comfortable silence descended. I recognised the street we had just passed and tried
calculating how long it would take to get there. Five minutes on and I still couldn’t remember the exact turnoff. I pointed to which one I thought it was but my guess wasn’t
right: the street looked exactly the same but my grandmother’s distinct house wasn’t there.
“Which one is it then?” I really didn’t know except it that couldn’t be very far away.
“Err can you just go to the end of the street please? And turn right.”
Relief settled in firmly as I recognised the square green hedgerow in my Grandmother’s front garden.
“Okay dropping me here will be fine.” I said in one of my many happy voices.
“Are you sure? I could drop you at the door?”
“No that’s fine” I was to regret this decision very soon after it was made. But for the brief thirty seconds it took for me to reach the house and for the cab to drive out of sight
I was anxiety free. Walking through the front garden I awaited the shrill yapping of my grand mother’s shitzu. When I had reached the front door my ear drums were still intact-
maybe the dog was asleep?
“Briiiinnnggg” went the door bell. Silence. “Realisation dawned on me” doesn’t quite fit the bill here, more like realisation kicked me in the face. My grandmother must be waiting
at my house!
“Grrr Son of a #@$%*!” I quashed the erupting mini-tantrum and was soon back to my usual, calm, perfect self. I had £8 left after the taxi, a big suitcase, a phone without
any batteries and a limited knowledge of how to get back to my house from here. After weighing up the situation I went to the nearest bus stop. There weren’t many people there:
just a mother holding some shopping bags with two children. In any case I looked at the bus routes and caught sight of the only one I knew, the 26. It always goes by
my house, I could take it back there. At this point I wasn’t particularly worried. After all why wouldn’t it go past my house? That was the flicker of doubt that passed through
my mind as I stepped onto the bus. I had to say goodbye to £1.50 since I couldn’t prove my age. That bus driver looked like one of those bitter old men who can’t retire yet
because their pension isn’t good enough. However in my hurry to sit down I forgot to ask him whether the bus went through either Barnes (my house) or Hammersmith (my
tube station). This was another soon-to-be-regretted decision. At the bus stop I hadn’t checked the route thoroughly either so I couldn’t be sure where I was going.
From sheen the bus I was on went to Putney. A few more people got on, mostly middle aged women. Some of them gave me dirty looks since I was sitting in the seats at the
front of the bus because my luggage didn’t fit in any where else. People came and went and soon there was only one person left from when I got on. She was a woman,
probably mid to late twenties. She was always looking at what I guessed must be her phone, her slightly worried facial expression never changing. I found looking at her
depressing so I stopped. Not that she wasn’t attractive but I wanted to remain upbeat and positive to prevent those ever-present tendrils of anxiety from creeping into my
conscious thought. It was to little avail though, I must say.
She finally got off in Richmond and was replaced by more middle aged women mixed in with a few middle aged men. A few were talking amongst themselves but most remained
silent. I didn’t pay much attention; I was rather more concerned about where the hell we were. Since the bus had left Richmond my neuroticism had increased sharply: I could
hardly recognise any of the surroundings let alone work out how to get back to my house from them. I caught the bus driver’s eyes in the window and he looked at me with an
uninterested face. Then as he turned the corner the bus slowed down.
“ Last stop,” he hollered “ Everybody off.” My eyes widened while the remaining passengers left behind me. He got out of his booth and said,
Pathetically I stammered, “Uh doesn’t this bus go to Hammersmith?”
“Wha-? No! No it doesn’t. It ends here. This is the end of the route!”
“But-“ I stopped. There was no point, he seemed to just be getting angrier. I got off and surveyed my surroundings: we were at Teddington bus depot. It was a desolate
place, perhaps even a god-forsaken place…no that’s too strong. But at the time, that impression increased: I hated this place and that bus driver and my phone (for not
having batteries) and that taxi cue and my wet socks and my… I went on in that fashion for a few minutes then ran out of thing to blame. I noticed the bus stop across the
street and approached it. There were lots of routes but I hadn’t heard of any of them. My emotions turned to despair; I just wanted to go home!
Just then I heard footsteps: I turned to see two young lads, both wearing the telltale hoodies worn only by delinquents and wannabe delinquents (I had nowhere near enough
experience to tell which category they fitted into just by glancing at them). They saw me as well but continued there conversation. I immediately turned away and pretended
to be studying the bus timetable in front of me; in reality my thought process was: damn you! I haven’t even said “how could this get any worse?” and still you dump this on
me!? I can’t quite work out who I was addressing this to since I was an atheist but I digress. I could feel them sizing me, and my bag, up, calculating to work out how quickly
they could run off with my bag, which was clearly what they were trying to do. They would probably start with a question like: “Hey mate, do you have the time?” But my
prejudiced musings were discontinued as I spotted a bus route with the word Hammersmith written on it. It was the 467!...Salvation! I heard the sound of an engine and
turned around to see a long, red vehicle driving down the road. As it came closer I strained my eyes to read the number: 4…6…huh?...0!?! Yes, it was the 460, approaching
while my hopes faded away. The bus doors opened and I felt two pairs of feet moving behind me. Those two people and the bus drove away and I was left alone. One of the
voices in my head began to open its mouth to say; “Now what have we learnt?” but it was drowned out by me humming a song very loudly. Back then I hated being proved
wrong by myself.
Twenty minutes and a dozen Simpsons theme tunes later, the long awaited 467 arrived. I hopped on, paid the fair and asked
“ Does this bus go to Hammersmith?”
“Yes.” He had quite a high, Indian voice.
“Really?” I chimed.
“Yes. It will be the last of our 26 stops.”
“Oh! How long will that take?”
“About two and a half hours.”
”WHAT!?!?!!?!!!!” I roared with all the comedic impact of a minor celebrity finding out his car’s wheels have been stolen as part of a hilarious new prank reality TV show on FOX.
Meanwhile my grandmother woke up at my house to find that I was three hours late from coming home from the school trip.
“Oh Dear!” She gasped “My poor grandson must have gone to my house and be waiting outside!” She ran outside and got into her car, forgetting both to bring her shitzu and
to close the door properly.
“I’m coming Deeaaaaarrrrr!!!”
The real journey had only just begun.
quite good, predictable from a certain point, but well written. If you're doing a creative writing course, mind sharing more creative writing?
Oh no thanks for reading it but I've already dropped english. What point would you say it becomes predictable from?
maybe not predictable, but I kinda knew how it was gonna end up. Just from the point when he found out his grandma wasn't at her house.