Young Writers Society

I'm worried about how this story had turned out. I have to write it for a school book, and it only needs to be a short story about christmas. But i'm anxious about bringing it in, so i was wondering if someone could explain what they think of it so i can improve it.

I'm not a very good writer at the moment, but i must say i'm getting better. One of the reasons i joined the website was to learn!

so here goes:

It was the season to be jolly.

The memories of years before this one were foggy like December days themselves in a bustling city. Those days in the festive season were always warm and lit orange by a homemade fire in the centre of the room. Family would knead you all together like dough into a tight knit group, where you would sit at an enriched table topped with luscious food gleaming in the spark of the homely glow. There would be the muffle of low Christmas songs, and the smell of gravy would whiff up your nose. The snow outside was smudged up into the corners of the windowsill to give crystal effects.

They used to be strong when I left. The smell used to prance in the street air. And the air they flew in wasn’t tender anymore; it was steel like and messy- rough round the edges. The sounds used to echo ghostly down the empty black streets. But those luxuries started ebbing away.

So that year when I walked down the gloomy bitter streets in midst of December I knew that music was a haunting from the rich days of family. I kept my hands in my pockets and my shoulders hunched up, walking right by that open music store. My ratty scarf was keeping my mouth enclosed from the stinging winds, but it couldn’t take away those tunes.

My pace started to fasten. We wish you a merry Christmas was more twisted and distorted than ever. It was like a battery coming to its death, loosing its stability and winding down into and evil, grave, sludgy rate.

But it started fading into the distance, and I let out a deep sigh. Now all the sound I could hear was my own footsteps. It was soothing to know I was the only one on the street that I could notice. I could think properly now, about more important things than the depths of the festive season.

Christmas eve. So this was the time where the most suicides occur. Is that right I thought? Well I could sympathize. Christmas was nothing more than a chore, especially to people like me. The darkness took its toll, and there was no light at the end of the tunnel for us. No Christmas lights or fireplace glow. But that was our tough side – no need for tacky celebration or emotional contact.

We weren’t that cheesy.

I said we. I said we all the time. But after I’d thought it through in my mind to reassure myself, I realized it was ‘I’. Those times with the family, I didn’t want to hear them again. They made me sick. Those Christmas nights in a compassionate loving home? I wanted nothing to do with them. Time for giving? It was rumour and hearsay round where I was. And the barren winter was where I wanted to stay.

I scuttled off round the corner into an alleyway.

It was darker and more secluded in the alley. I gave a sigh of relief as the Christmas festivity was picked away, and replaced with old bricked walls, black in the night.

I made my way into the belly of the shadow, not knowing exactly where I was going, but knowing what I wanted to get away from. But as I came to the mouth of the alley leading onto another road, I heard laughing from above me.

I flicked my hair from in front of my face and peered above. I tried not to move my head too much. It might look like I cared about what I was about to see.

There was a window from one of the houses. It gleamed out a golden homely glow, and the noises of talking and laughter were dancing out into the cold air outside. I could see shadows of the family on their orange wallpaper. They were moving about, having a meal perhaps. I closed my eyes and imagined the tender turkey steaming in the middle of the table and vegetables rich in flavour nestling beside it. I took a large whiff of the steam coming out from the window.

Suddenly, I shook it all off. What was I doing? I didn’t need the food or the hospitality from friends and family. Christmas meant nothing to me; it was another day like all the rest.

I continued to move out onto the next street.

This road didn’t have the shops and the decorations hanging from every lamppost. It was lined with houses. I didn’t dare look into their windows, because I’d see things I’d rather blind myself from. I kept my head down and slid past every home, counting them as I went along like each one was a challenge.

But a shrill of small high-pitched voices broke my daze. I spiralled round, and looked at the small children at someone’s doorstep.

They were carolling, and singing silent night with lanterns hanging over small sheets of paper. They were wrapped up with thick knitted scarves and huge puffy jackets. Their heads and arms looked like they were popping out from huge balloons. Their cheeks were red from the cold, and a few rubbed their noses with mittens over their hands.

I had stopped my walk without realising. The sound they made was soft and cute. The song itself was smooth and put shivers down my spine. The woman and man in the doorway were gazing down at the children like they were little angels.

I slapped my forehead, and tore myself away. Was the whole world out to get me? Everywhere I turned there was something else reminding me of what Christmas used to mean to me. Christmas was a sham. Christmas was a joke. Christmas was a waste of money.

But in the back of my mind I’d accepted those facts a long time ago.

I stopped in the middle of the street. My head was spinning and confused. My eyes were welling up, and my heart was leading me down a road that my legs weren’t ready to follow. I rubbed my head angrily, cursing my stubborn attitude.

Finally, I calmed down my busy head.

I wandered off to the one place I knew I’d be better of staying.

After walking through the lights of the town, and through the laughs and cheers from family homes, I was closer to my destination. Before the lights had blinded me, but now they were telling me where to go. The family’s roars were frightening me, but now they were cheering me on.

I hopped up the small steps, and knocked firmly on the door. I knocked with force. I wanted this done quickly.

I waited edgily. The door was just how I had left it years ago. White, with a reef hanging over the small window at the top.

Suddenly, the door unlocked, and standing there before me was my mother, dressed in a stereotypical Christmas jumper. Behind her was the hallway, never changing from dark red walls and tinsel streaming down the banister of the stairs. Her face was plump and rosy, like she had always been.

When she saw me, she gasped. Her hands covered her face in disbelief. I shuffled round a little. I didn’t know if she was surprised, or horrified that I’d turned up on Christmas Eve. It hit me just how stupid it was to be on my mother’s doorstep after such a long time.

Running away was easy with my stubborn nature, but coming back was a difficult hurdle. I held my breath, and shook my head. Slowly, I started to edge away from the warm doorstep. The smell of cooking wafted away, and the warmth began to drift back into the house it came from. My mother stood there staring at me as I got further and further away from the doorway.

“Wait!” She cried. I stopped on the pathway. She cleared her throat, coming back to reality. We both held our breaths. And finally, she gave a beaming, loving smile. “Come back for Christmas.”