This is a small piece I wrote for a creative writing task in English class.
It's one I'm not too proud of, but since I practically died on this site, I decided to put something up.
I hope the readers enjoy.


"A memory flickers in the distance, then fades, waiting for someone to pick it back up."

I am silent- head in hands, pen spinning around nimble fingers- trying to recall a place almost forgotten. I shut my eyes tightly and I can feel blue water, clear, glistening blue water, piecing itself into the puzzle.

"T, run! Get away!" I can hear a voice shouting at the back of my head. In my mind, I see a girl, about seven years old, screaming and running and tripping over herself, bare feet pierced by fragments of shells. The sound of giant waves lapping on the shore almost drowns out the shrieks of the brown-haired girl. My gaze turns to the ever-growing waves, then my head spins and I blink to find myself back in my English classroom.

'Idiot'. I comprehend myself in my mind. All I'm doing is writing a piece for English, not recalling a bad memory, but I shut my eyes again, disregarding my own disapproval.

The roaring sea lashes against rocky cliffs and white-washed sand. The once blue sky has faded into a dull grey. Clouds loom overhead, threatening to spill over with dense precipitation.

Hurried shouts yell at us to get away, but the girl is too busy crying about a sharp shell lightly poking her foot. As she sits cross-legged in the sand, wailing, she doesn't notice the approaching flash of sea green, and none of her attention is paid to the advancing waves soaking the sand deep brown.

My eyes snap open. I don't need to go back in time to remember the broken leg, the blood. I repress a shiver.

Then I shake my head and I smile to myself. A game of catch in the rain. My young self tripping to get away from the catcher. Why do I make it sound like an approaching tsunami will wipe away this side of the world? Why is this all so dramatic.

I snicker escapes my lips as I gaze down to the long gash on my left calf. There's still an iron rod setting my bone's growth that hasn't yet been removed, proof of my childhood klutziness.

But I pick up my pen anyway in one graceful movement and start writing: "A memory flickers in the distance…".


Reviews are loved, especially since I'm not feeling too good about myself at the moment.
FPCOM's formatting is crap, sorry about the shitty linebreaks and formatting.