Honesty - creative writing.

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                                                        Honesty

There once was a dank little village, with a great tree in the middle. Orbiting the tree like a host of tiny planets were children, playing, skipping and generally frolicking. The village was set on an inordinately steep hill. It had a maze of roads spiralling off to various different districts. There were two major sections in the village: the rich part and the poor part. The poor part was a huddle of terraced houses packed with families of troglodytes, each house with a pinhead of grass to call its own. Windows were boarded over, gates were rusted and broken and, as for cars, there weren’t any because the ignoramus children had poached them all. But in the posh part of town the houses were giant, with huge forests in their back garden and huge expensive gleaming cars smothering the driveway. And in this part of the village lived Tom.

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Tom was privately educated, 15 year old boy who lived in the posh part of town. By every definition of the word he was posh. But Tom was desperately grasping for acceptance among the poor people. He was two faced; he even puts on a fake common accent to sound “normal” although he actually sounded like a brainless imbecile. He lied about where he lived and said he was brought up in the ghettos of the East End, raised by a family of gangsters. But when he spoke to his family, he spoke clearly and concisely and his etiquette was ...

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