Um…yeah.. this is my first fanfiction thingummy. Was done for English Creative Writing. Shades of a P.G.Wodehouse tribute. So…enjoy! Since I'm new, any comments (no flames please!) are welcome.
Of odd-petalled daisies and other odious objects
It had been a fairly ordinary day as far as the parameters of fairly ordinary days can be stretched and as the school bell chimed for the last time that week, one could observe the vast sea of blue-clad schoolgirls cascading out of the school grounds as they proceeded to flood the local bus stops. The sun seemed to have acquired a new desire to manifest itself more thoroughly than usual as it had been given free reign over the azure, cloudless sky. There was a marked increase in the effervescence of the school crowd's animated chatter and yet the cause of this was not the aforesaid centre of our galaxy. It was in fact, the previously mentioned bell that had signalled to them the beginning of that much anticipated week-long holiday: half-term.
Half-term seemed to possess the power to make even what was usually agreed upon as the cacophony that resulted from ringing the school bell seem like sweet music to one's ears. The prospect of the holiday certainly seemed to be having its usual effect upon the crowd as each girl exuberantly set off on their own expeditions for the day. Some to visit the various town centres with their schoolmates, some to assist their families with ample packing for foreign holidays and others to engage in…various other entertaining activities. I was a member of the multitude that had decided to productively dawdle away the remainder of their day at the local town centre. There was much entertainment to be found there. One could admire colourfully garish shop displays, observe the latest atrocities imposed by 'fashion trends', nourish oneself unhealthily and generally tarry away the time. However, company makes all the difference. In the company of friends, tarrying away the time acquires the countenance of an afternoon spent socializing with one's confidants.
I was to embark on one such tarry-trip that afternoon with four of these confidants, three of which were currently seeing to some unresolved issues concerning a spontaneous classroom version of the Second World War, paper aeroplanes and a less than mirthful teacher. As a result, I found myself lingering near the school gates with the remaining confidant patiently awaiting their arrival as I partook in a pleasant chat with this confidant.
My current companion was short in stature yet one could not say the same for her personality. Bossy yet benevolent would have the been the best way to describe her as her red shoulder-length curls could often be seen asserting their views on various subjects as could her eager eyes and raised cheekbones. The one feature of her face however, that seemed to defy her personality was her almost diminutive nose.
'How come you're not picking up your sister today?'
I replied that my mother was not occupied at her workplace today and so she would simply have to bear the sheer joy of being able to collect my sister from her primary school situated forty-five minutes away from home by the fastest means of public transport.
'Oh right.'
A silent pause here informed me that any possible conversation on the topic had been completely exhausted.
'Have you done your English Coursework?'
Looking back on it now, I realize that my friend was perhaps not particularly well-versed in the range of topics one could choose from to sustain pleasant chatter.
I replied in the negative while inwardly appalled at how little she evidently knew about the priority I place on my schoolwork or rather lack of it after having known me for a year. However, after taking a second look at her nose, I decided she could easily be forgiven as she probably perceived my character to be similar to hers.
Allow me to elaborate.
The contingent of school friends that I would generally associate with could easily be seen as those that would be situated at the foremost pinnacle of the accomplishers of the future. They were those classmates whose capability one could only dream of surpassing with their unquestionably superior brilliance and the flame of insight alight in their infuriatingly intellectual eyes.
However, one must remember that in every dazzling field of daisies with even numbers of petals, one will find a flower with an odd number. As I am sure your wise judgement may have conjectured, in this bevy of school friends, I was most indisputably the odd-petalled daisy.
Riveting as the above mentioned conversation seemed to me, I must confess that I felt quite a sense of cheer when our three friends came into view. As the last few clusters of girls trickled out of the school gate, we decided to follow their example. And with that, the five of us set off in the direction of that enticing metropolis that was the town centre.
'What is this?'
It is often astounding how the simplest of inquiries can communicate all that really needs to be said in certain situations. Or it would seem so in the case of my mother on a Friday morning. In the current condition, those three words seemed to radiate an aura that would make any sane person flee in the interests of their own safety.
However, having resided with my mother for fifteen years (in other words, my entire life span), I realized that in my current situation, it would be best to simply allow the wave to wash over, repent and resume my life whilst awaiting the next high-tide.
Well, that had been the most appealing stratagem until my eyes fell on the envelope that lay gaping open on the table situated next to my mother. One look had momentarily frozen all activity between my ears. On the envelope was the school crest.
Now I believe it is safe to assume that one does not need a very finely tuned sense of intuition to conclude that an envelope emblazoned with the school crest must indeed contain some form of communication from the school. Being the optimistic ray of light that I was, I immediately concluded that this holiday was going to be far from one of my most cherished and treasured memories.
As my mother's eyes began absorbing the information provided on the letter and her brow began to furrow, I decided the best course of action would be to fix my gaze on the grey-blue carpet embracing the floor. Never before had my eyes held such a fascination for the carpet that I had been living on for a year. It suddenly struck me how a carpet-fitter's work is never truly appreciated to its full extent. Really, the quality of the job the man had done in this room…truly flawless. Fitted perfectly from wall to wall.
At this point, it is probably best to save you, the invaluable reader, the suffering of having to read through any more beliefs that my mind may have conjured up during those few moments.
As her eyes completed scanning through the last few words of the letter, my mother wordlessly handed me the piece of fateful paper. I suppose this was just of her. After all, if one is to be convicted of a deed, informing the accused of the deed in question is generally the ethical thing to do.
As my eyes read through the letter, they informed me that the letter's purpose was to inform my mother that I was missing my last piece of English Coursework that incidentally was due to be handed in to the teacher two weeks ago.
'What is this?'
Divine Retribution. Divine retribution with the postman playing the role of the divine retributional emissary to perfection. I made a mental note never to look kindly upon a postman ever again. Perhaps dogs had the right idea all along.
'I said what is this?'
Well, there didn't seem to be much that needed to be explained anyway.
It is often the smallest things that can affect our lives in the most hideous manner as I'm sure some great scholar of philosophy or the other has observed. This was proved to me in the form of a certain little letter and this certain little letter in question, not surprisingly, happened to be imprinted with a red crest.
For the rest of the holiday, I was thus confined to the house (unless groceries were required) and was ordered to complete this infernal piece of coursework titled 'Creative Writing'. Creative Writing. Were one's creative juices really expected to be flowing in the light of this new capricious turn fate had taken?
I think you will safely deduce that the answer to that is questionable.
Thankfully, as this deficiency in my coursework record had only been discovered on a Friday, one weekend was the entire period that I could possibly be confined for. Further constraint would have led to the escalating curiosity of numerous teachers and, in turn, school governors setting off a chain of reactions that would eventually lead to the return of my freedom and …rather unfortunate consequences for my parents. This observation provided me with a new, almost appreciative perspective on the bureaucracy that formed the foundations of the country and its educational institutions.
Monday
This end of my domestic imprisonment was therefore marked by my return to the less than exhilarating routine (that I am sure you are more familiar with than you would like) that constituted the weekdays. Rereading the aforesaid letter had informed me that in the event that I was unable to complete my coursework within the bounds of half-term, I would be required to attend a 'catch-up session' after school on a Wednesday where I would be provided with ample help and guidance on the structuring of my work which was eventually to be typed out neatly.
The one vital aspect that the author of the letter seemed to have forgotten was the fact that in order to structure work, one usually requires a faint idea of the work they will create. As you may have guessed, I was ill-equipped, to say the least, in this area. The fact that my holiday weekend had been spent in confinement did not really contribute towards my reserves of inspiration.
Incidentally, 'catch-up sessions' did not seem to appeal to my teenage conscience as the ideal way to spend a Wednesday afternoon. In fact, seven hours seemed to fulfil the quota of time one required to spend at school to 'grow up' into the 'individualistic, ethical human beings' that students were expected to develop into. Not that a human child could be expected to grow up as another species.
My parents, however, evidently felt otherwise as they had conveniently taken my decision for me, stating that I was to attend this session, come rain or thunderstorm.
Silly, I remember pondering.
In the event of a thunderstorm, the likelihood was that there would be an interruption in the power supply and as far as I was aware, computers certainly did not operate through vehicle fuel. Yet, there it was. Unless by some miracle, I could be induced to muster the effort to commence and complete the construction of this piece of work, I would be imperatively required to spend the remainder of my Wednesday afternoon in a room where I could structure my work.
This prospect inspired me to create a piece of literature as soon as was humanly possible before Wednesday would dawn. To do so, I hurried home after school and having settled comfortably in my room, I positioned myself in front of the laptop on my desk.
My room was the smallest in our fairly sized house and it was because of this that people would refuse to believe me when they were informed that I had in fact, chosen this space myself as my private cove. It was sparsely but comfortably furnished with the necessities one generally requires, in this case, a pinewood bed equipped with a thick mattress, a simple, practical desk laden with books, papers and a table lamp. The room also contained a chair and there were cushions littered across the untidy bed, unmade since yesterday. However, the only real feature of the room was a windowsill stacked with books in piles of various sizes.
Having waited to be struck by a flash of inspiration for a total of ten minutes now, my eyes wandered towards the windowsill in question where more than one book silently seemed to beckon to me. I like to think, however, that I possess an iron sense of willpower and so less than five minutes later, I could be found curled up on the bed against a wall of cushions where I had given in to the temptation of perhaps the greatest comic literary genius the world has ever seen …
P.G.Wodehouse.
Tuesday
Seeing as how successful I had evidently been the previous day in terms of making literary progress, I decided to take the laptop downstairs where hopefully, provided with a view of the garden and its wildlife, I would be visited by a literary muse.
Visions of textural descriptions, plotlines similar to mazes, vivid characterizations, illustrative depictions and literary tools of every other sort swam across the vast expanse that existed where a brain, if I had been fortunate enough to possess one, would normally have been situated.
As I continued to stare at the sparsely adorned laptop screen, the explorers that were my eyes began their usual task of distracting the scant material within my head.
Fifteen minutes later, I could be seen entranced with the various colours and shapes that constituted the internet game I was currently playing. One can understand that it is difficult to see the relevance this would share with pursuing a desperate literary exploit.
Fifteen minutes was a new record for the general length of my attention span.
Interestingly enough, time flies almost instantaneously when one is playing internet games.
Wednesday
As I switched off the less than melodious alarm and brushed intrusive strands of dark hair away from the immediate vicinity of my eyes, the faint traces of grey matter situated in the space between my ears were jolted awake with the realization of what day it was.
I decided that this would be the day of resolution. The day that I would rush to the 'catch-up' session and leave the room knowing that my teacher was clutching a neatly typed up copy of my attempt at recreating literary ingenuity. The day that I would hear the last of this overwhelming burden commonly referred to as coursework yet I personally felt that a burden of such gargantuan proportions deserved a more…appropriate title.
As the school day progressed at its agonizingly slow pace, I was glad to finally hear the ringing of the school bell. I packed my schoolbooks, collected my coat and other belongings and set out on a journey to rid myself of my burden once and for all.
I vowed to myself that I would produce my best possible attempt at literary success produced through painstaking effort. Beethoven was deaf. Einstein was told he was stark raving mad. Granted both of them possessed a somewhat necessary human organ between their ears but I could still do this. I could emerge victorious on the other side of this wall titled so vividly in my imagination, 'CREATIVE WRITING'. I could conquer this titanic obstacle. I was capable of doing this.
As my feet led me to the tip of the staircase leading to the fateful classroom, I noticed my previously described friend walking by. It seemed she had acknowledged my existence as well and as the aforesaid diminutive nose turned towards me, she said, 'We're going to town. Want to come?'
A colossal war of conscience began to rage within me. I heard a fierce war-cry rumble within my inner conscience. Or perhaps that was one of my stomach's attempts at communication. Debate after debate uprooted moral protest after protest. And as the battle came to a close, a single phrase uttered by my treacherous mouth marked the result of this massive battle.
'Yeah, sure'
After all, one couldn't be expected to be creative on a deprived stomach.
Somewhere on the North American continent, on the south shore of Long Island, the procreator of the inimitable characters Jeeves and Wooster, of the Empress of Blandings and of Uncle Fred turned painfully in his grave.