Creative Writing Assessment for school.

In this assessment, we had to choose a random news report and write a story on it, or at least that’s what we did for the practice, but the teacher told me to submit the practice writing and I had almost two months to just sleep in class while everyone else wrote their creative writing assessment. This assessment ended up getting me an E8 (Excellence level 8), which is the highest grade in New Zealand schooling, so I got an A+.

Here it is.

“Oh god, I should not be doing this. I should NOT be doing this. If my parents could see me now, they would be so disappointed.” The man whispered to himself,hands shaking from a mixture of the cold air and his own fear as he pulls his woollen, black mask over the top of his head, tugging it over his ears and adjusting it so that he could see through the eye holes. “It’s their fault. No one will hire me. Sure, I had a tiny bit of a criminal record, but it’s not even that bad! Just a few drunk driving charges. But sure, yeah, make it harder for me to even survive in this country, just because I got drunk a few times.” The man muttered, the echoing crack of his footsteps drowning out his complainingwhispers so the few pedestrians on the street couldn’t hear. He was walking, each step a tug towards something horrible, slowly approaching the local dairy. A friend owned the small business. Well, not exactly a friend, more so acquaintance. Actually, he had only met her a few times, but he knew a lot about her from their mutual friends. He knew that she was here late every night, and that the place was famous for being robbed. It was the best place for him to get the money that he so badly needed. “I’m sorry, Kaur,” he whispered, sliding a large, grey hunting knife from its sheath beneath his hoodie. The knife’s surface was splattered with cracking paint. It glinted from the warm, yellow light exploding from the street lamps littered all along the street. He took a deep breath, feeling his lungs expand as they took in the freezing oxygen. He kept it in his chest for what felt like hours, then let the carbon dioxide comeout, warm, contrasting with the frigid temperature of the outside air causing a visible change to the air around him. A mist. This was his final breath. The final breathbefore his life changed forever.

He kicked in the thin door, hoping to surprise her, hoping to shock her, so that she couldn’t react in time. He ran into the brightly lit superette and started yelling at the woman who stood before him, tall and thin. She was Kaur, the only worker in the bright, clean room. “Get the f*** on the ground!” He barked, saliva bursting from his mouth. He hoped intimidation would work, but he was too late. “Get away from me!” She screamed, throwing a candy bar at him, then sprinting into the backroom, where the products were stored. “No, no, Wait!” He yelled, with no luck. She slammed the heavy door shut, the metal hatch on the inside clamping closed. “F*** F*** F***!” He exclaimed, slamming against the cold, steel door. On the other side, a scraping sound quickly diminished any hope of getting what he came for. She had moved something heavy in front of the door, and there was no way he could get through the thick, metal lock, especially with the added weight on the other side. “Damnit, I’ll just have to break the register,” he exclaimed furiously, sprinting behind the counter. He grabbed a nearby fire extinguisher, placing his knife back into it’s cheap, black sheathe. He held the metal candy cane high up in the air, and began repeatedly smashing the cash register, plastic numbers and buttons flying in random directions. “Damn it! I can’t get into it! What the f*** is this made of?” He shouted, his arms as dull as lead. “No.” he whispered, dropping the heavy fire extinguisher with a piercing “Ding!”, as he heard the sound. The sound that marked the end of his efforts. The shrill, drilling buzz of the police sirens.

He ran from the scene of the crime, dashing betweendull, grey buildings and running down dark, decrepitalleyways, throwing his mask into a dirty, overflowingtrash can as he sprinted past it. His legs began to burn, but he didn’t stop running until he reached his home. He stopped, keeling over from the pain in his lungs, wobbling repeatedly, almost dropping from the pain in his thighs. After a few minutes, he stood up straight and stared up at his home, the decaying wood a reminder of his social position. The dim lights reviving the fear of the dark that he will never be allowed to feel. He started up the dirty, uneven steps to his front door, reaching out for the rusting rails, the cracked paint pulling at his paleskin. He hiked up every step, feeling pain run up his calves and stopped before his dark brown door. He stared at the rusting handle. “I could have done better,” he whispered, then opened the door. It swung on it’s broken hinges with a quiet, aching creak, and darkness stood before him. A whisper came from the shadows. The cold, cracking voice of a little girl.

“Daddy? Is that you?”

I have to say that I’m really proud of this writing, but I need criticism ❤️