The little miracle.

Last night, when I was lying in bed, I had a very deep thought about my friends.
It was meaningful and original and made me quite proud of myself that an thought of it.

However, it was half 11 at night and I didn’t really want to write it down, because I should have been asleep hours ago.

WORST MISTAKE EVER.
Now I can’t remember it.

So, instead, I’m going to tell you a story I came up with in Citizenship today.
Don’t worry, my friend was muttering all the way through, so I couldn’t hear if I had tried.

The best stories begin with a word or a phrase that draws you in, making you want to know more.

In a hole in the ground, there lived a Hobbit.

One of the best opening lines I’ve ever read.
And I read a lot.

Yet, despite all of those incredible authors seducing you with their magical words, reeling you in to follow their tale, I’m not going to you this device.
You’re all still reading because I’m talking as I would if I were speaking to you. And you’re curious as to what this story is really about, and why I haven’t started it yet.
It’s because I can’t.

It’s not that the story is too powerful or emotional or difficult or secretive for me to write.
It’s that I physically can’t.
There are literal restraints on me, arms drawn to my chest, fingers taped together.
The bark hugging the tree behind me offers no comfort.
Just pain. And an itch on the centre-left hand side of my back.

****
A if it almost sensed my longing to put pen to page, I was freed and picked up my forgotten notebook. There was no use me trying to run.
They weren’t going to let me get away.
****

Nothing was unusual about my Spot when I left behind the dullness of Maths to sit here.
No matter how much I tried to let the numbers sink into my, lets face not overly large, head, they just wouldn’t stick. Not the way words do. Numbers are always the same, always constant. They are the dull, never changing constant of life, forced upon all of us. However, words can be moved, changed and created anew. They are fluid, waterfalling down into our souls. But the mist that sprays back at us is the new words, new orders of old words.

Yeah, I hated maths.

I am not to proud to say that I…”bunked off,” as it were.

I had slipped away quietly, treading gently on the dead leaves that lay, sacrificed and bloodless on the dirty gravel. Cans of Coke, fruit juice and even beer littered the edges of the path. I barely noticed; my Spot was fast approaching.
I always got excited whenever I plucked up enough courage to ditch class and spend my time, more pleasantly, in my Spot. It wasn’t much, but it was more home than any of those classrooms would be.

Having spotted my “entrance”, I ran the rest of the way, almost forgetting to leap over the log that lay in the way.

And there it was.

At the end of a long row of holly bushes, there was a dry clearing, nestled softly against what used to be the old History department. I think; it was left to die and the trees claimed it as their place of rest. Now it was mine to share.
There was no pathway leading to it, or anything cliched like that. It was an arduous climb to reach my Spot, through brambles and over cobwebs (I really hated spiders). Then there were the patches of earth so soft, one might use it as a bed. The trees glimmered with a sort of unearthly mist; the whole place had an unearthly quality to it.
I hadn’t told anyone because they would make fun of me. I mean, they already did, but I could only ever tell a trusted friend about this place.

I sat down, hand slipping into my bad to draw out my Notebook. If this Spot was my palace, then the Notebook was my crown, for in it, I lorded over all of my characters and settings.
I was halfway through my semi-complete story (having already finished yet another cliched poem about this place’s beauty) when I felt something grip my legs too tightly.

Obviously, I tried to stand. Bad idea. 1/5 starts and would not recommend.
The Ivy, for that was what it was, had formed a tourniquet around my knees. Struggling only made it ten times worse! So I decided that, instead of doing a ‘Ron’ and struggling so much it would suffocate me – because clearly what I found myself in was Devil’s Snare – I should take Hermione’s advice and SIT STILL.

I didn’t write. I didn’t scratch at the itch on the centre-left hand side of my back. I didn’t flinch when a fly landed on my nose. I just… Relaxed.
****
And that’s where I began my story.

If I could not avoid a moral, I do believe that this is it; tell a friend if you’re going to bunk a lesson, because when you don’t answer Facebook messages, they’ll look for you.
Or, have friends I think would be the better one.

That experience hasn’t stopped me going there.
I just keep a violently sharp pair of Plant Cutters there too. Along with a bottle of water; who knows how long I could have been stuck there!
****
End.
****

At first I wanted to go in a different direction with this story. With the ‘talking to the audience’ thing. I might try that in the future.
But I stuck to the plot.
YEAH BABY WOOO!
I’ve never really been one for original stories. They didn’t seem to be my forte.
Except I like this one!!
Thanks for reading!
Shannon.