I’m sure that this piece is Pullman in comparison to your Tolstoy. I am only 15 and I would like to hear some crticism about my writing.
PS Praise also Accepted!
La dernière route
Paintings are perched high above me as I walk along this passage; every painting that I pass, a reminder of those that have achieved, those that have served their time, those that have met standard. The proud yellows and the destructive blues, glaring me in my face. My features do not augment such colours; instead they cower away, leaving nothing but a blank sheet. A devastating concoction, fear and disappointment; my expression depicts this, as cold as the very glossy stone that I walk upon. Even as I look down to the shine on the floor, it stares me in the face and I feel nothing but remorse. The maintainer of this arrogant finish is nowhere to be seen; he cannot be heard or smelt and he is invisible to all. His only possession, his soul; his only love, his ground. The very ground in which I scuff my heels every day. Perhaps he is angry, perhaps he is merciful, either way there are those that worship and there are those that don’t, one of them is right. It is just a gamble.
Every step I take brings me one step further towards my final destination. Although it is very much revered, it is in my mind a soothing thought. This initiative strips the illusion of “time†of all its significance. It brings me to feel the nature of reality. Is it possible to accept a fate such as this? When one can look back upon this event time may indeed provide insight into the nature of events, however it serves me only as an excuse, a very loyal excuse. It never leaves me; the calming way in which it prolongs the inevitable is my only lifeline. Every window that I pass, tempting me with its tantalising beam of piety, an easy escape or the neon sign to the “valley of the shadow of death� As long as I’m still walking down this stone filled path, I shall choose the calm of time as my escape route.
Although the excuse of time is very much my saviour, the actuality of time is much my foe. The smell of time is foul no matter which form it takes. The whole structure reeks with the odour of time. Time seeps into one’s mind and attacks from within, up the nose and into my skull, piercing through any strand of feeling of anger I have, lulling any negative emotion and replacing it with the fake smile and the phoney laugh. There is no definitive starting point for this stench, it creeps into our lives whenever it feels necessary and leaves when it feels its work has been done. It leaves nothing but mental destruction and a compulsory sense of nostalgia. This is what they feed on, they have rewritten history for those that have no place, they have no place but they try to fit in the place that never was. Time has arrived; departed and very much conquered this institution.
The conquering of foreign lands is not only augmented by the scent of time, but by the stained-glass window that flares like a flag at the end of the hallway. The pride of the establishment roosts upon the captains’ portraits, staunch shoulders and inch-perfect hairlines coupled with the dustless blazers and the optimistic expressions. The blacks of their eyes not visible, perhaps this form of time has ripped them out of the pictures, perhaps they cannot see what is happening to them, their futures so neatly placed, their lives so eagerly planned.
Once past this hall of heroes, the eyes widen and the feelings of individualism sink even further into the depths of the barrel of institutional life. Here it lies, the structure of myth and awe. The target of all our desires, the source of all our fear. The supports stretch high above the realms of possibility, they merge into the neatly decorated ceiling that is more a formality than a foundation of inspiration. They are intricately decorated with general Victorian style woodwork that stretches from bottom to top. The bottoms are slightly eroded from the usual bustle that seems to pervade the eyes of the average individual. From these mighty supports stems an enormous gateway, strong “English†oak wood, reinforced by the “British†iron cladding. Another reminder of the true nature of this organization, patriotic nomads.
Suddenly, a pale of realisation soaks me. This is it. The very thing we live our lives avoiding is now staring me right in the face. The gateway to our worst fears lumbers me with its presence. The burning desire of retreat fills my mind; fire is no match for water. This is my time, my fate. The handle of the gateway screams out to me, is it forbidden fruit or perhaps a revelation?
My hunger for the handle finally gives way in an almighty binge; I wrap my sweat-soaked fingers around the knob and twist with every inch of force I could conjure. It is fiercely hot, as if a great fire is raging on the other side. I resist its attempts to curb my determination, my ardent hands succeed and the giant obstruction swung to one side with an unpredicted zeal. The doorway to the fate of my continuance lay ahead, my mind is swept away with anxiety, but my feet, immobilised by fear stand firm with the facade of bravery. Several minutes pass, each second in its own right a lifetime, the breeze cannot be felt, however in seems to manifest in my garments- they lash against my body as if to urge me back. They know but I do not. With the false impression of a forthcoming heroic return I grit my teeth and enter.
My first step sees me sink much further than I had anticipated, my already rebellious gut takes yet another blow, which succeeds in fuelling its passionate fire of retreat. The ground in which my foot eventually lands is undoubtedly perilous and with a sharp pulse of pain my leg jolts back to the door. The fear of retaliation sets in and my passion for a conclusion overrides the agony that has become a disease on the entirety of the body. My head ascends in trepidation to reveal my deepest fears. I am not alone in this chamber. A figure awaits my arrival.
It is firmly established in the corner of the room where it pervades the rays of faith that ooze through the miniscule chinks in the now-shut door’s defences. Its movements are kept minimal and its patronising posture stares me in the face. In its hand lies the bare shaft of a substantial utensil that has only one purpose, a purpose I hope to avoid. A digit is risen ad hoc from the end of one of its limbs, the physical makeup of this being I cannot determine. My head sways in the general direction of its command and on rotation my eyes latch onto the only object that bears any chance of comfort. My mind is riddled with the gunshots of confusion, this phenomenon is bizarrely placed in a room with misery and despair filling every nook and cranny, littering the air with its foul stench and announcing its silence so forcefully. After slight examination, I leap towards the mundane looking sofa and perch myself on the edge of it through fear of it digesting me in the stomach of unease. This settee seems such an irregularity it conjures up the thoughts of contamination of the leadership; however, scandalous ideas of corruption are the least of my worries.
My mind focuses yet again on the figure in the corner, although I am in no doubt of its presence, my instinct blocks it from my conscience. I adapt a more metaphysical view of my surroundings and a true examination can begin. He wears the clothes of any official, unique in theory but similar in practice. He seems to adopt a rather scrawny physicality, however his posture does not suggest weakness. His features are stark, his nose thrusts forward from his face; he does not however, suggest villainous intention. This is a figure of contrast, a figure torn between morality and true expression. He is a member of a forgotten generation, a generation of men who’s life is a contrast between tradition and modernism, this man is a true victim of our times and it seems to me that he will never forget. After an unceasing silence, he awakes from his trance and begins to journey towards me, one shoulder stooped and the other thrust high. My hands tense up and the crunching sound that occurs only furthers my fear of reprisals. His utensil crawls closer in his hands, at one end lies a hole of which I dread to think of what lies within.
He stands tall above me and reaches for something in his pocket. He sets it out upon the desk that lies beside me and the desk screams with vile antiquity. My hand listens and is quick to withdraw into my pocket. He stops. He lets out a murmur that I cannot quite make out. I look to his eyes for some help on his imperative. I appease his wishes and with sincere reluctance I rest my hand yet again next to his desk. A sharp movement occurs from his fingers and the hermit is released into the world with severity that I have not seen in my lifetime. Fear does not come naturally at this stage. I seem to have surpassed this emotion, instead I feel nothing. My brain can’t stand to think, I look straight ahead and brace for the inevitable.
He lunges towards me. I close my eyes and wait. His touch presses my skin again and again; perhaps I cannot feel the pain? I open my eyes in a spark of mutiny to see a paper immediately thrust into my face, it reads as so: “Congratulations… good reportâ€.
Note: I go to a traditional English Grammar School, yellow and blue being its colours. It is written for a school writing competition, writing provides me with my only outlet of rebellion, the rest have been tranquillised by the school’s conformism (is that the right word?).