So, What Do You Reckon To This? Rate Out Of Ten.?

My most recent story. I'm only 12, and English, and female. God spun the Earth around lazily, and it finally settled on Australia. After inspecting it closely for a few short moments, he came to a conclusion that it was too barren, and made a note to fix this immediately. This was not, of course, the... show more My most recent story. I'm only 12, and English, and female.

God spun the Earth around lazily, and it finally settled on Australia. After inspecting it closely for a few short moments, he came to a conclusion that it was too barren, and made a note to fix this immediately.

This was not, of course, the creation of the Earth. In actual fact, the Earth previously described had been constructed out of Paper Maĉhe, and God was not obscenely old, and nor did he possess obscenely large amounts of facial hair, or bear a striking resemblance to Albus Dumbledore. He did have obscenely awesome hair, but that is another matter entirely. He was not even called God; this was a nickname that had been invented for him by one of his best friends, Hannah, during their first year at Sir William Robertson High School, due to the fact that she was very taken with his hairstyle, and found the name apt. His real name was Smith, Jack Smith, and he was fond of saying it James Bond style, much to the amusement of his female friends. He was rather odd, in many respects. It was not uncommon for him to be seen making odd noises and gestures, and had even once or twice performed an odd sort of skip and jump which Becky and Charlotte took great pleasure in repeating.

Jack (a.k.a. God) applied the finishing touches to the Southern region of the globe he had been required to make for Humanities, and then threw his paintbrush down. He absently roughed his hair up at the back, then rose from his chair, thoroughly inspecting his reflection in the mirror as he stood. He wasn’t vain, as many believed, but merely proud of his hairstyle. As Hannah put it, there was nothing wrong with that. Charlotte objected, claiming that even a cool hairstyle was no reason to be allowed to do your hair in the Spanish window, but as Charlotte also claimed she could kill you with a plastic tray if she so wished everyone paid little attention. Jack lifted his gaze from the mirror, staring at the pictures that were on the shelf just above it. All were unframed, and placed at lopsided angles. He reached up, and with one quick sweep scooped them all into his hands, before crossing the room and sitting down on the very edge of his bed. He flicked through the photographs in his hand. The first had been taken at school; he, Sam (whom Hannah had named Jesus, for obvious reasons), Charlotte, Hannah, Becky and Sophie all featured in it prominently, and all appeared to be striking various violent poses, as Becky or Charlotte might say, as both were still reverent fans of My Chemical Romance. The second was only him and Hannah; hugging, also at school, presumably taken on Becky’s phone, as she was the only one comfortable with using it during lunch etc. The third was the girls and Sam, so he assumed it was himself that had taken it. Sam was grinning broadly, in apparent delight, seemingly because of all the female attention. Jack laughed, but his amused mood was interrupted by his phone suddenly blaring out Dear Maria, Count Me In, and he hurriedly snatched it, his eyes scanning the small screen. Hannah had texted him, something she tended to do very regularly.

hi did we hav maths hmwk x

he read. Jack quickly tapped a reply that assured her that no, they had no Maths homework due, and, after replacing his photographs haphazardly on the shelf, departed downstairs.

‘Jack!’ called a voice, which he recognised with a groan as his mother’s.
‘Yeah?’ he answered reluctantly.
‘Are you going out tonight?’ she asked.
‘I dunno.’ replied Jack. ‘Probably.’ His mother gave an audible huff, and Jack slid down the banister, falling off in the process. He swore as he landed at a painful angle, cursing his bad coordination, and his mother, who had just entered the hallway, scolded him.
’Sorry.’ he muttered, raising an eyebrow and slouching into the living room, throwing himself onto the sofa. He picked up the remote from where it lay on the arm, and flicked the television over to Kerrang! before cracking open a can he retrieved from his blazer pocket. He remembered a comment Charlotte had made only yesterday; You drink so weirdly! she had complained, bitterly. Jack had ignored her. It was a tactic many people tended to use around Charlotte, with the possible exception of Becky, but then, she was the only one that understood the millions of inside jokes Charlotte regularly spouted out. Jack snorted, and turned his attention to the music channel.

The phone rang.

Jack began to drag himself up, casting a longing gaze at the television, and walked sullenly towards the telephone, only to find his mother had already answered it.
‘It’s for you, Jack.’ she said, handing him the phone with a flourish.
‘Hey!’ screamed a voice down the phone.
‘Hi, Hannah.’ Jack said, switching the phone to his other ear, sure that Hannah’s pitch had burst his eardrum.
‘Yo.’ That would be Charlotte, then.
‘Greetings.’ Becky, obviously.
‘Hi.’ Sophie, presumably. Jack greeted
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