A Little Creative Sample…

I’m currently deep deep deep into a creative writing dissertation (as well as an English literature one), and so I thought I’d share a little sample of my un-drafted work so far. I think I posted an early draft of this story agesSsSs ago, so I won’t post the beginning again, so here’s a chapter! Any feedback would be welcomed immensely!!

I’m sitting on my own in the school canteen. Usually I sit outside under a big willow tree but today it’s raining and wet dog is not a look I pull off successfully. My Mum used to make me a packed lunch but she’d leave little notes wishing me a good day and although I secretly loved them I died of embarrassment when Lottie one day found a particularly gooey one. Now I pack my own. Mums are precious; everyone’s aware of it deep down, but somewhere along the way we all made this unspoken pact never to admit it. I wish it was cool to show it.

I look up and see Lottie walking towards me. I fixate on her bright pink bra slightly visible under her white school shirt, and then notice unwanted movement in my trousers. She is so beautiful. But due to her admirable dedication to her studies the more popular boys don’t seem to see it. I used to get lost in her eyes and her Instagram account. Every photo is a work of art, her effortless poses taunting me. Especially the holiday pictures, if you catch my bikini-obsessed drift.  I had to unfollow her, because I’d torture myself every night.
I put my hand in my pocket and stretch the fabric across to readjust my crotch, as inconspicuously as possible, before meeting Lottie’s stare and smiling.

“Erm, what the fuck was that text? Do you think you’re Andy Warhol or some shit, you’re not a poet and it was just fucking creepy?!”

“Andy Warhol’s not a poet. He’s an artist. But yeah I’m sorry about the message, I was in a bad mood. I don’t really know what to say. Sorry. Sorry about the message”

“Oh my god, I don’t care about your moods, I don’t care about you. Get over us, because I definitely have. And Andy Warhol did write poetry!”

He definitely didn’t.

“Stupid bitch.” I mutter under my breath, making sure I get the last word. She doesn’t hear though, as her back is already turned and she’s marching away. There’s definitely nothing going on in my trousers anymore. After we first slept together I went out and bought expensive jeans so she’d see the designer label when I took them off. But now when I get home I keep my school trousers on because the fucking Levi’s logo reminds me of her.

 


So that’s that. I guess it doesn’t make much sense without reading prior chapters, so thank you if you’ve made it this far in my post! Thanks for reading and I’ll be back soon with more, so make sure you’re following this blog!

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