Spike_1412
New member
This is a short piece that I did for my English coursework. I was told to make it as descriptive as possible.
It's a cross between LPF and real life.
My body jerked upwards, head impacting on the bottom of something or other, causing me to fall back down again. I rolled out of bed, mumbling expletives to myself. I crawled to the toilet, my foot tangled in the duvet, too tired to care. I made it just in time. As I stood there, I checked the time. 07:45. I groaned and wondered what had caused me to wake up. I shrugged and rubbed my face with the hand that had been propping me against the wall, and groaned again. Seven-forty five is way too early to be awake on a Saturday morning. Unless, of course, you didn’t go to sleep the night before, then, and only then, is it acceptable. I started back towards my bedroom, senses reeling, duvet trailing behind.
When I eventually got back to my bedroom, I proceeded to thrash my duvet, with hopes to free my entangled foot, but all I succeeded in doing was entangling my other foot. Grumbling, I sat on my bed and attempted to free my feet. My mind was too fuzzled to make any sense of my minor predicament, so I just sat there trying in vain not to slip back into the glorious land of sleep. About ten minutes, and several micro-sleeps later, my mind was unnaturally clear, allowing me to easily un-entangle my feet.
When I was free of my cloth prison, I grabbed some clothes and unceremoniously threw them on, not caring whether they matched or not, and headed downstairs to check my emails, where the sound and smell of frying bacon greeted my senses.
“What you making me?” I queried as I wandered into the kitchen.
“You? I’m not making you anything,” my mother replied caustically.
“Must be that time of month,” I muttered.
I screamed in pain as a red hot tea bag impacted on the side of my head.
I made a hasty retreat to the lounge, hands clamped to the side of my head. I detoured past the telly to turn it on, and plonked myself down onto the couch and flicked through the channels; VH1, MTV, Smash Hits, The Box, Q, Kerrang, Scuzz and back again. On the second or third ‘lap’, I went via the Discovery channels, and discovered nothing.
I continued channel hopping until I got a sudden craving for some toast. I sauntered into the kitchen, giving my irate mother a wide berth, switched on the grill, grabbed two slices of bread and threw them under the grill. I checked the bread every 30 seconds so it didn’t get cremated. When they were a nice light brown, I flipped them over and watched as the steam rose off them. After a further 20 seconds, the toast finally starting to change colour from white to a medium-brown colour. I deftly switched the grill off while juggling two hot pieces of toast onto a plate, ready for buttering.
I went to the fridge and grabbed the butter. It felt nearly empty. I flipped the lid and found that it was empty. I launched it at the bin. I hit the radiator behind, and then fell into the bin in two separate parts. I went back to the fridge and grabbed the other tub, expecting it not to have been used, but alas, it had. It appeared that someone had got the old butter out of the fridge, seen it was empty, put it back and then used the new butter. I have a pretty good idea who did it as well.
I fished a knife out of the drawer and spread lashings of butter on the slices of toast and, unintentionally, my fingertips. Once done, I turned one over and put it on top of the other one and cut them in half, corner to corner. Toast always tastes better that way.
I returned the butter to the fridge, closing it with my foot, while I put my knife in the dishwasher, and then closed that with my other foot.
By this time, my mother had disappeared off upstairs again, so I was free to roam around downstairs without incurring her wrath, so I made my way over to the computer to check my emails. I sat on the chair on my knees and adjusted the height of the chair to accommodate the extra leg space under the desk. I’d pay for it later, but I deemed being up at 7:45 worthy of some rights regarding the computer chair.
I nudged the mouse, and the screen loaded up after a few seconds. I double clicked the Internet icon, being careful not to get butter on the mouse. I knew if it did, I would be forced to lick it off. I clicked on the address bar and typed in ‘hotmail.msn.com’ and waited for it to load. I typed in my password, as requested, and the pre-inbox page loaded up. Seven new messages in roughly six hours. Probably Kerry gloating over the fact that she thought she had beaten me in our “Staying Awake” competition. I clicked on Inbox and found that she had in fact only sent two of the seven messages, the rest being garbage. I thought it was impossible for Hotmail accounts to get junk email?
I opened the email with the subject ‘…’, ignoring the gloating one. Did I want to go into town tomorrow? I checked the time it was sent; 01:53. Not long after I logged off, making ‘tomorrow’, ‘today’. I replied saying sure and asking who else was going and where and when we would meet.
I didn’t expect a reply, so I logged off my email and signed onto web-messenger to see who was online. I returned to the kitchen and put my plate into the dishwasher while it signed me in. I returned and found that only the people who were online all the time were online, so I logged off and went to play ‘Madness Interactive’ on a different website. I died a total of 69 times, but I took 283 cyber-enemies with me. Not bad. I checked the time; 08:32.
I refreshed my inbox and found that I had another new message, from Kerry, subject; ‘Re: …’ Outside HMV at 11:30, there are 5 of us going; these are Matt, Jenny, Kirsty, and herself, with me being the sixth. I sent some garbage of a reply, logged off and returned to my lair upstairs.
I sat on my bed and rubbed my face slowly, being careful not to rub my new accessory and re-ignite the pain. I decided to cleanse myself with a nice hot shower and a shave. I went to the bathroom, closed the door, turned the shower on, and flung my clothes to the floor. I snaked my hand into the jet of water to test the temperature. “Perfeck,” I commented, and stepped into the shower. Halfway through soaping myself up, my body gasped and jerked forward as though stung by an invisible source, but my source wasn’t invisible. It was the shower. Somehow, it had gone from pleasantly warm, to Antarctic freezing, in the space of half a second. I washed off the soap I had put on and clambered out of the shower, shaking like a leaf in autumn.
I decided that today was going to be one of those days where nothing goes right for you all day.
Tell me what you think.
It's a cross between LPF and real life.
Saturday
My body jerked upwards, head impacting on the bottom of something or other, causing me to fall back down again. I rolled out of bed, mumbling expletives to myself. I crawled to the toilet, my foot tangled in the duvet, too tired to care. I made it just in time. As I stood there, I checked the time. 07:45. I groaned and wondered what had caused me to wake up. I shrugged and rubbed my face with the hand that had been propping me against the wall, and groaned again. Seven-forty five is way too early to be awake on a Saturday morning. Unless, of course, you didn’t go to sleep the night before, then, and only then, is it acceptable. I started back towards my bedroom, senses reeling, duvet trailing behind.
When I eventually got back to my bedroom, I proceeded to thrash my duvet, with hopes to free my entangled foot, but all I succeeded in doing was entangling my other foot. Grumbling, I sat on my bed and attempted to free my feet. My mind was too fuzzled to make any sense of my minor predicament, so I just sat there trying in vain not to slip back into the glorious land of sleep. About ten minutes, and several micro-sleeps later, my mind was unnaturally clear, allowing me to easily un-entangle my feet.
When I was free of my cloth prison, I grabbed some clothes and unceremoniously threw them on, not caring whether they matched or not, and headed downstairs to check my emails, where the sound and smell of frying bacon greeted my senses.
“What you making me?” I queried as I wandered into the kitchen.
“You? I’m not making you anything,” my mother replied caustically.
“Must be that time of month,” I muttered.
I screamed in pain as a red hot tea bag impacted on the side of my head.
I made a hasty retreat to the lounge, hands clamped to the side of my head. I detoured past the telly to turn it on, and plonked myself down onto the couch and flicked through the channels; VH1, MTV, Smash Hits, The Box, Q, Kerrang, Scuzz and back again. On the second or third ‘lap’, I went via the Discovery channels, and discovered nothing.
I continued channel hopping until I got a sudden craving for some toast. I sauntered into the kitchen, giving my irate mother a wide berth, switched on the grill, grabbed two slices of bread and threw them under the grill. I checked the bread every 30 seconds so it didn’t get cremated. When they were a nice light brown, I flipped them over and watched as the steam rose off them. After a further 20 seconds, the toast finally starting to change colour from white to a medium-brown colour. I deftly switched the grill off while juggling two hot pieces of toast onto a plate, ready for buttering.
I went to the fridge and grabbed the butter. It felt nearly empty. I flipped the lid and found that it was empty. I launched it at the bin. I hit the radiator behind, and then fell into the bin in two separate parts. I went back to the fridge and grabbed the other tub, expecting it not to have been used, but alas, it had. It appeared that someone had got the old butter out of the fridge, seen it was empty, put it back and then used the new butter. I have a pretty good idea who did it as well.
I fished a knife out of the drawer and spread lashings of butter on the slices of toast and, unintentionally, my fingertips. Once done, I turned one over and put it on top of the other one and cut them in half, corner to corner. Toast always tastes better that way.
I returned the butter to the fridge, closing it with my foot, while I put my knife in the dishwasher, and then closed that with my other foot.
By this time, my mother had disappeared off upstairs again, so I was free to roam around downstairs without incurring her wrath, so I made my way over to the computer to check my emails. I sat on the chair on my knees and adjusted the height of the chair to accommodate the extra leg space under the desk. I’d pay for it later, but I deemed being up at 7:45 worthy of some rights regarding the computer chair.
I nudged the mouse, and the screen loaded up after a few seconds. I double clicked the Internet icon, being careful not to get butter on the mouse. I knew if it did, I would be forced to lick it off. I clicked on the address bar and typed in ‘hotmail.msn.com’ and waited for it to load. I typed in my password, as requested, and the pre-inbox page loaded up. Seven new messages in roughly six hours. Probably Kerry gloating over the fact that she thought she had beaten me in our “Staying Awake” competition. I clicked on Inbox and found that she had in fact only sent two of the seven messages, the rest being garbage. I thought it was impossible for Hotmail accounts to get junk email?
I opened the email with the subject ‘…’, ignoring the gloating one. Did I want to go into town tomorrow? I checked the time it was sent; 01:53. Not long after I logged off, making ‘tomorrow’, ‘today’. I replied saying sure and asking who else was going and where and when we would meet.
I didn’t expect a reply, so I logged off my email and signed onto web-messenger to see who was online. I returned to the kitchen and put my plate into the dishwasher while it signed me in. I returned and found that only the people who were online all the time were online, so I logged off and went to play ‘Madness Interactive’ on a different website. I died a total of 69 times, but I took 283 cyber-enemies with me. Not bad. I checked the time; 08:32.
I refreshed my inbox and found that I had another new message, from Kerry, subject; ‘Re: …’ Outside HMV at 11:30, there are 5 of us going; these are Matt, Jenny, Kirsty, and herself, with me being the sixth. I sent some garbage of a reply, logged off and returned to my lair upstairs.
I sat on my bed and rubbed my face slowly, being careful not to rub my new accessory and re-ignite the pain. I decided to cleanse myself with a nice hot shower and a shave. I went to the bathroom, closed the door, turned the shower on, and flung my clothes to the floor. I snaked my hand into the jet of water to test the temperature. “Perfeck,” I commented, and stepped into the shower. Halfway through soaping myself up, my body gasped and jerked forward as though stung by an invisible source, but my source wasn’t invisible. It was the shower. Somehow, it had gone from pleasantly warm, to Antarctic freezing, in the space of half a second. I washed off the soap I had put on and clambered out of the shower, shaking like a leaf in autumn.
I decided that today was going to be one of those days where nothing goes right for you all day.
Tell me what you think.
