Creative writing - The end of the beginning…

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Abhishek Bhattacharya

GCSE English

Creative Writing

The end of the beginning…

Chapter 1:

Mr. Dan Stewart had been alone for so long, no one knew if he still existed or not. Actually, no one cared for Dan. Everyone he knew, and loved, were long gone.  He realized that it was not long, till it was his turn, to make his way, through the aftermath of life.

His face carried the entire tale of his years.  On his rather large head grew short grizzled hair and he had just completed shaving off remnants of his hoary moustache.  His cheekbones gave his face a harsh character; but there was no harshness in his eyes, which looking at the world, under their snowy eyebrows giving the impression of a man ever alert to greet a redeeming proclivity in others.

Mr. Stewart resided in a small flat on the ground floor in the middle of a North London council estate.  Everything in his flat was meticulously arranged and he tried to keep it as tidy as possible. The walls were full of paintings by distinguished artists and pictures of his loved ones; each one framed with a border full of engravings of blossoming gold roses.

He had himself bought every article of furniture in his room: two single wooden beds with two thick olive chequered blankets and a small white pillow at the top of each bed.  The beds were placed beside a plain rectangular window with a calendar below it, displaying the date as “4th July 2012”.  The window overlooked the rest of the foul looking estate.  There was also a clothes rack, a small black bookshelf, which was made of plastic but made to look like wood.  It was full of his long novels and historical books, and they were arranged from below upwards according to bulk size.  In the corner of the room lay his small white desk, with a matching chair, and on the desk was his all-important bible.  Mr. Stewart was quite a religious protestant Christian, but he never attended Church.  He believed that god was omnipotent, and there was no need to go to church, and that one could pray within the comfort of their own home, as long as they were faithful to the Almighty.

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However, one evening, instead of indulging into another one of the numerous novels found in his timber bookshelf, he found himself standing in front of his bedroom window, watching a gardener hard at work on the small pitch in the middle of the estate.  The cherry faced sweating gardener was struggling to save the parched trees shedding their dehydrated leaves, and the yellow grass dying in their masses before his eyes; as outside the red hot day of July had descended upon London and the intense rush of heat circulated the streets, devastating all in its path.  The planet ...

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