foxychick asked:
I’m 13, but i really like to write..and have been writing little things for a while. about 3 1/2 months ago, i started writing this “book”…i’m taking a writing class…but i’m not amazing or anything…so any advice is welcome! thanks!
“No! Please! No!” I screamed as the shadowy figure closed in behind me. His face was a twisted evil, an evil that was so wicked it beat ****** or Osama bin Laden by far. I was being chased by this ‘thing’ down a dark narrow hallway. There were no doors, no windows, only frames with paintings lining down the hall. The paintings contained graphics so horrible, that if I could describe them I don’t think I’d tell another soul.
I screamed bloody murder as I sped on, though I wasn’t sure how I came to be running from what appeared to be pure evil, or what brought me to the place I was in, or what I was in. In fact, the only thing I appeared to know was that I had to keep running; otherwise something terrible would happen to me. The whole scene was a tented red, and you could sense darkness a mile away. I continued running, completely oblivious to anything else around me. Then suddenly the whole world seemed to slip above me. I was in absolute blackness. You couldn’t see a hand one inch from your face! I was still running, no, falling. I was falling now into what seemed to be and endless pit. I was falling towards my end, towards my death.
-Beep beep beep beep-
I bolted up right with a start. My heart was pounding so hard you could almost hear it. My wavy, dark brown hair fell down my shoulder in a tangled mess. I often had nightmares like this, but never had they been so intense.
“Delia! Delia Elizabeth, are you out of bed? You have school today!”
“I’m out Mom…” I grumbled as I slowly made my way out of my bed. I hated to be called my full name. I liked Delia, and that was it. Mom knew it too, I think she called me that on purpose. Just to make me mad, my mom and I don’t get along very well. No, not since Dad died. There’s always been this tension between us. Ever since he died everything changed for us, we had to leave our huge house and come to this old, crummy apartment. Mom is tired of working all the time, she keeps up a double shift two nights a week just to stay on top of the bills. Apparently Dad took up gambling, and lost all our money that way. After that, Mom and Dad were constantly fighting. Then one night he just left. We never heard from him, or of him. Not until that newspaper article, it stated that Mr. Joe Morgan had spent a late night at the casino. He got in the car, too drunk to notice anything, and had run off the road into a ditch. By the time police found him, there was absolutely no hope in saving him.
I pulled off my pajamas and hopped in the shower. I was so lost in thought I hadn’t realized I had shampooed my hair three times. I stepped onto the bathroom rug and scrunched my hair, the bright red tips of my otherwise brown hair were beginning to fade. I threw on my black, plaid, skinny pants, and a red shirt, and pulled a black wristband on my wrist to cover the cut marks. My average height kept me from standing out, that is until I got into high school. I had been asked out time and time again, and invited to parties at least each month. I turned down every offer. Not wanting to do anything but sit in my room and play the guitar. It was my only salvation. The only thing I ever wanted to do was write a song or play my guitar. Most music I couldn’t stand. All those flashy singers who have it all, but sing about what they don’t have. Rap was so annoying, and who could stand screamo? Classical was out too. I stole a look at my clock. 7:50. I was running late. Hastily I applied eyeliner to my dark, almost black eyes. Grabbing my homework and stuffing it in backpack, I ran into the kitchen and grabbed a piece of toast. I lived a block away from school, so I walked each morning. Or, usually I walked, this morning I was running late so I had to hurry. I couldn’t afford another detention, Mom would be so furious! She’d hit me again, I’m sure. I’m a junior in high school, only 17. I couldn’t wait to turn 18, freedom! My red converses were thumping along with every step I took, my heart thumped wildly. I had to make it one time! I pulled out my cell phone, if it could be called that, and checked the time. I had three minutes.
I slid through the school doors and into my class room with five seconds to spare. I had made it.
Algebra was first, and my least favorite subject. Not because I was horrible at it, actually, I was pretty good at algebra. It had more to do with who I was assigned to sit by.
“Psst! Delia!” was the hoarse whisper that came from Samantha, almost immediately after I sat down.
Samantha is the most annoying girl I have ever met. She’s high-class and preppy, but seems to think we are “best friends”. Her curly blonde locks were always perfectly positioned, and it didn’t matter if it was raining
