For my english coursework: achieved full marks and an A*, which I was shocked and delighted to hear.
My task was to write a short 'genre mosaic', incorporating as many genres as possible into my story.
It is finished, and will be uploaded in chapters.
All feedback is HIGHLY appreciated.
Clock Strikes Thirteen
Trying to save my sanity
So this is what sixteen years comes down to. This is the zenith of my pitifully short (but most certainly not sweet) life. Standing on the edge of a cliff, roughly twenty three centimetres away from death. Great. What an anti-climax. Life is so overrated.
It’d be a good day if I wasn’t me. It’s April, the beginning of summer. It’s bright, it’s breezy, it’s nice. That’s all, just nice. Nothing special. I didn’t pick a great day. It’s not dramatic; there’s no thunderclaps, there’s no lightening to add effect. It’s just plain old nice. The sea is gurgling, like a hungry stomach waiting to swallow me. It doesn’t look one bit enticing. It’s a typical English sea; cold, grey, bleak, unappealing. Still, the kind of weather when some crazy British types go and buy ice cream and sit on the beach, lapping up the non-existent UV rays while they watch their kids body boarding on the equally non-existent waves. It’d be nice to be like them.
Instead, I’m standing on the top of the cliff, about to fall to my death. No ice creams for me. Not that I even like ice cream anyway. Who would want to eat flavoured snow on a stick? Not me, thank you very much.
There are several reasons why I am here, but I’m not going to attempt to explain them, because I can express none coherently. It’s hard to explain the way my mind works. Nobody understands, least of all me. Which is a bit annoying really, when you’re trying to stay sane and not jump off a cliff.
C’est la vie. Que sera sera. Story of my life, which I would say in French if I knew how.
There seems to be a pattern immerging. Sanity, change, insanity, change, sanity, change, insanity. The ‘change’ varies. Could be something widely considered ‘groundbreaking’ like a new President. Fantastic. Could be something small like someone eating the last Jaffa Cake. Not so fantastic. Whatever it is, that change alters the way my mind thinks.
There’s this theory kicking about somewhere that some philosopher came up with. Basically, this guy thinks that your life is planned out before you’re even born. Nothing can change it, because the changes are meant to happen. Something - I have no idea what - moulded and shaped your life, so even if you think you‘re ‘breaking the status quo‘, really, you‘re no different from the next person. You’re simply the toy of some ‘higher being’. Like a huge game of The Sims, except you can’t get out when things go wrong.
That’s one theory. Everything happens for a reason. Every little thing you do happens so that you can reach the end planned for you.
And this is mine.
My wonderful story of love, happiness and pink fluffy bunnies hopping across a daisy covered field ends here. On the top of a cliff, staring over the edge and thinking about some old philosopher who is probably dead by now. Of all the things in the world to think about and I’m thinking about some old bearded bloke.
Maybe I should think about something more worthwhile. Like the sixteen years of my life. The monotony of sanity, change, insanity, change, sanity, also known as love.