Kellianstone
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- Nov 5, 2011
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hi, im meant to write a short story for English. Mine is about a bullied boy in and orphanage. Is the beginning decent enough?
Mother always told me that I was a special kind of person. That I was made the way I was for a reason and that no-one should ever tell me otherwise. Ofcourse at the tender age of eight, I believed every word she told me. That’s why they called me Special.
My Real Name is Charles Dorway The Third. Mother passed away a few months ago. I was always surprised how somebody so perfect could have given birth to something like me. I looked nothing like her, I was more like an interesting piece of specimen dug out of a laboratory and somehow adopted by an angel. Her funeral was indeed nothing but depressive. I ofcourse never cried, she had gone to a better place and if anything I was more than happy for her.
This somehow never stopped the rather dramatic female relatives such as Aunt Gostine of whom cried over the little things in life that no-one really cared about. I heard that she cried when their mail boy got the flu and when her favourite brand of cereal was out of stock. She stumbled her way through a crowd of people trying to comfort me and said “Things might be tough now, Special.. but you”
“Why do you always cry?” I asked, cutting her short on what seemed like the beginning of a touching speech.
“What?” she asked.
“Why do you always cry?” I repeated “ You cry when the mail boy got a flu, when your cereal was out of stock. You even cry now”
“But your mother!” she exclaimed.
“Is at a better place” I told her “Surely her life must have been quite gloomy with you as a sister either way”
Mother always told me that I was a special kind of person. That I was made the way I was for a reason and that no-one should ever tell me otherwise. Ofcourse at the tender age of eight, I believed every word she told me. That’s why they called me Special.
My Real Name is Charles Dorway The Third. Mother passed away a few months ago. I was always surprised how somebody so perfect could have given birth to something like me. I looked nothing like her, I was more like an interesting piece of specimen dug out of a laboratory and somehow adopted by an angel. Her funeral was indeed nothing but depressive. I ofcourse never cried, she had gone to a better place and if anything I was more than happy for her.
This somehow never stopped the rather dramatic female relatives such as Aunt Gostine of whom cried over the little things in life that no-one really cared about. I heard that she cried when their mail boy got the flu and when her favourite brand of cereal was out of stock. She stumbled her way through a crowd of people trying to comfort me and said “Things might be tough now, Special.. but you”
“Why do you always cry?” I asked, cutting her short on what seemed like the beginning of a touching speech.
“What?” she asked.
“Why do you always cry?” I repeated “ You cry when the mail boy got a flu, when your cereal was out of stock. You even cry now”
“But your mother!” she exclaimed.
“Is at a better place” I told her “Surely her life must have been quite gloomy with you as a sister either way”