As a result of an English lesson this week, Alexander produced this incredible piece of writing! We were completely blown away and very proud of our head boy for such excellent work – we can’t wait to read more!!! #highcare #thenextbigthing #author #storytelling #novel #onlyinyr6
In the middle of a derelict field, on a dreary, cold night, the rain pitter pattered on a big top. Red and white stripes of the colossal tent had been overtaken by thick green moss and cloudy white fungi. A single bird looks as frozen as an ice sculpture sitting on the apex of the big top. Trees line the perimeter of the field like a barrier keeping in the feeling of despair and depression. The branches of the trees are gnarled witches’ fingers itching to consume the blackness.
Sitting in a corner lies an old, cracked wooden trailer. It has a glimmer of light shining through a little, fragile, old window that glints like a diamond under a spotlight. Contrasting against the dark, musty night, the expectation of happiness belies the sadness and sorrow trapped inside this battered caravan.
The caravan is a cave. A gloomy, depressing and suffocating space where a small boy existed. Chained to a wall for the pleasure of others to come and laugh at, his deformities earning a meagre existence. Settled in the corner of the wooden structure sat a boy with a sharp knife and a small block of wood, carving animals with precision, carving animals with care. Every so often, the sound of the scraping knife echoed through the empty room blocking out the sound of the rain and howling wind, piercing the silence.
As the evening progressed, a man walked up the rickety stairs of the caravan, they squeaked like menacing mice guarding the entrance. Suddenly, the father burst through the broken wooden door, it flung forwards and backwards several times squealing on its hinges. He slowly clattered across the room to his son. The boy looked up. Once the little freak recognised his father his head drooped down, and he carried on carving meticulously. The boy avoided eye contact and seemed puzzled as to why his father stood in front of him.
The older man whipped out a miniscule cake lit with a lone candle. Casting a gentle glow, the flickering candlelight provided a glimpse of the boy’s bulging eye and his bubbly shoulder. The father says, ‘Happy Birthday son’ in a gentle, caring voice and the boy responds, ‘oh thanks dad’ in a hopeful manner. ‘Go on, make a wish’ says the man encouraging the small boy to indulge in a moment of happiness
‘A wish just for me’ says the little freak in a lowered tone. ‘A wish just for me’ he mutters, quietly thinking.
‘I want friends who will play with me and not laugh at me, a house with more than just one room so I can feel free like a bird and most of all I want not to be a freak show.’ ‘I want something more than just being a freak. I want more than that beyond this week.’
‘Please give me your trust, I am good with wood. Please just give me a chance to make a living from this, and not live in this abyss’.
‘What’s wrong with your life son were doing fine?’
You don’t know me dad and how I feel, I would rather be dead.!’
‘So, what do you wish for son?’ enquired the man in a confused tone.
‘Please may I have some more………. wood’ he says wiping the tears of his eyes in a resigned fashion.
The boy, with one gentle blow, extinguishes the flame. Almost certain, that only one wish would be granted.