Woodseats Young Writers

Crush Darren Harris was, in the opinion of Alicia, the best looking boy in class. School. Maybe even the whole world – to her knowledge. She’d spend most lessons shooting him glances, maybe even giving him the odd stare if she couldn’t get caught. She had his number, and she tried to text him but he’d either ignore her or give disinterested results. He must’ve had other people for his eyes to be on – like Fran Simpson, or Chrissie Bale. But all sweet, young Alicia wanted out of life was someone like him – or so she thought. If not handled delicately, a childhood crush can quickly become obsessive, or spiral out of control. Or even become a point to fixate decisions on; which is never the right thing to do, even if it seems to be at the time. Luckily, the young blonde hadn’t yet allowed herself to fall into such habits. But it was always a possibility. It was February 14 th , more commonly known as Valentine’s Day, and Alicia was walking to school with her older brother Bill...

If there was one story I'd like to state, It would be about why I was late. So, here I am to celebrate, The joys of being a headless date. I met her down in the pub. It was half past seven, I'd had some grub. She really did look very sweet, But I was late to the meet and greet. Like I've said, I'm a headless date, So I don't know why I was so late. I don't really know Why I really did go. It wasn't for a kiss. I have no lips. I don't know why I was so late. As I say, I'm a headless date. So, I shall stop blathering on. I think the date's back on.

The walls were pale, lifeless. Grime residue hid in corners and a nauseous antiseptic smell filled the room. There was only one window and it looked out on to a city doused in a derelict grey. Despite the beeping and whirring of various machines, there still seemed to be a silence so thick you could it with a knife. In the centre of the room on faded white sheets lay a shell of a man. Jack Floyd’s face was empty of colour, his ashen hair thinning and his lips a pale blue, their surface dry and cracked a million times over. His wrinkles had sunk so deep into his face it was like knives had carved them out. His eyes were closed and his skin was so starved of blood that you could see each little vein and capillary as it snaked along his eyelids. He was so still you’d think he was dead if not for the machine that occasionally rang out, announcing his heart had finally beaten once again. It was one machine in a battalion of them, each dedicated to providing or measuring something. An ...