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Title under construction!

Short story By: MOmObeena

I am taking a massive leap in to the world of story writing! A huge step from my usual poetry.

I would really love some feedback on this first piece so that I know what direction to head in! Any comments any advice would be fab...

I have purposely left the name of the character right at the end hoping readers will figure out who it is I am talking about! Title is under construction so some ideas would be useful please...

Submitted:Mar 7, 2014    Reads: 11    Comments: 2    Likes: 1   


Amidst all the hustle and bustle of London, the streets paved with gold, as Dick assumed, lives a girl with a magnificent story to tell. Gone are the long, golden, flowing locks that drape so perfectly over her shoulders. Her miniscule figure lost under a becoming lady's body, misshapen and at that awkward age, where frustratingly she is coming in to her own. Adulthood cunningly eludes her and her fresh, sky coloured eyes are now exhausted by reality, where everything is nonsense, nothing is what it is, because everything you see, is what it shouldn't be. She walks with confidence that is not of this world, constantly looking for a battle around every street corner. She looks up to the sky at the brightly shining moon, according to her you see, this is where her wayward wisdom comes from. Though no one else knows what it is she searches for in the dark of the night sky, or who it is she calls for, some Cheshire person of sorts.

Living in an attractively small and neat apartment with her friend of several years, Dinah her rather large and visibly obvious, well-fed cat, her fat inheritance means that she has the luxury of doing absolutely nothing in terms of an honest day's work. Which for us seems a whole lot better than the nine-to-five's- we are victims of. Her days are occupied with a bizarre regime which begins with a vigorous dusting and polishing of her fine china, albeit chipped and worn-out, these are polished to such extreme lengths that one may see their reflection, down to the very shyest of wrinkles that sits upon their face. They are then strategically placed on her disproportionate long slender dining room table, which upon first glance, would seem like it belongs in a Count and Countess' extravagant home, furbished with all things Tudor that have an aged feel to them, if aged is what they were going for that is.

It is difficult not to question her taste in home decorations because it is the one thing that stands out, perhaps the only thing in fact;

As you enter her home, her small-ish one bedroom house just off Leicester Square, away from the busy streets, handful of cinemas and the random street dancers, painters and musicians, but just close enough to the hip and happening eateries, lodged in between two huge town houses that have expertly shot up a floor or two each year, with every new occupant being a tad wealthier than the last, sits a petite almost non-existent in comparison to her neighbours, two storey house with an oddly lit front door and an even more oddly shaped door handle. Upon first glance it almost looks like the face of a disturbed, once mortal soul with an unrealistically large sniffer.

As you enter the home, in pristine condition with immaculate walls, floors and ceilings that are unfortunately occupied with eccentric or rather weird and wonderful, chalky coloured carpets and walls. The walls, dressed in rose coloured matte paint, have on them, unevenly mounted portraits and pictures from a world unknown to anyone but her. Strange forest scenes, mushrooms galore, and even a dimly painted scene of an array of disturbed-looking animals and humans alike, propped up at a long, crooked table with teapots and teacups (way more than necessary) situated in no orderly manner, and all different in style, pattern and shape from one another, as though they were plucked at random from a shop where nothing is sold in two's. Come to think of it, this scene minus the strange tea party guests, looks almost identical to the one positioned in the living quarters of this quirky little townhouse. Coincidence?

To the left are some wooden stairs with a strip of chunky, deep blue carpet running along the middle all the way up until it is out of sight, lost in the darkness of the first floor. To the right, a large, thick door frame with the absence of a door, takes you in to the living quarters, even more eccentric looking than the hallway. By now you will have noticed, this is no ordinary house. Though perfectly in shape, it would seem that the possessor has a rather distinct taste for all things odd! The living room, though of an acceptable size for five maybe six guests at any one time, is occupied with a large dining room table which has absolutely no place being there, and yet it sits there with crockery shining in all its glory. To the right, squeezed beneath an adoringly large bay window, draped with curtains from goodness knows what era, is a small suede couch, delicately upholstered with mint green fabric and pale orange stitching, just enough room to squeeze three of her, or one and now come to think of it, alarmingly large cat.

Mounted on the walls that are excessively flowered, sit old, battered oak shelves that house miniature ornaments ranging from mushrooms of all shapes, sizes and colours along with yet more teacups and miniature teapots, just about big enough for a mouse to reside in, or perhaps a very small human. Hanging off of one corner of the chunky wooden shelf, was a small inanimate object which cannot be seen until you are but two inches close to it. A small worn-out, rusty pocket clock. I suppose not wanting to overpower the room with a normal-sized wall clock, she has opted for a smaller, very much used, miniature version of a time telling piece. Perhaps it has a story to tell, perhaps it has some personal history with which she cannot depart. Who knows?

Propped up at an angle on another shelf which is hanging on for dear life, closely facing the unique shall we say, couch, a flat screen television that looks as though it will tip over the edge of the shelf with the slightest flurry of wind, sits gathering dust. It isn't evident what exactly the décor is meant to say, considering the old is mixed with the new, the bizarre is mixed with the normal, though perhaps it is best to let you decide what you wish to consider as normal in this household! With the substantial inheritance she sits on, it only makes sense for such a person to have whatever they desire, be it a supersized dining table, a pastel couch, chipped pots and teacups, and a state of the art high definition flat screen television.

They say one's house tells a story, well this young 20 year old, she has her own outrageous story to tell, and indeed it explains the variety that makes up her household. Her move from Oxford in to the city that never truly sleeps was a bold move for this little daydreamer, with her heart set on creating a well needed divide between her old luxurious life where little was left to the imagination, where she had to concoct her own land of wonders in order to live. She now moves on to a land enriched with wonders, accessible without having to shut her dreamy, crystal blue eyes. This story is of one we all know, we all have loved at some point in our lives, she made us reconnect with our own wondrous lives, and now she arrives with confusion about her.

In a bid to extract from her mind what is in fact real and what is merely a figment of her imagination, Alice comes to London…


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