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Snowbird, an extract from chapter eleven (standard:drama, 586 words)
Author: Brian CrossAdded: Jan 20 2002Views/Reads: 2587/1Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Snowbird is a novel centered in Lichfield, United Kingdom. I would describe it as a romantic drama.

Snow hurtled almost horizontally through the cold evening air, driven by
the strong wind. The flakes were like thin white needles reflected by 
the gaslights of the city street, grounding on the carpet of white that 
had been accumulating all day. Danny Wilson’s feet felt frozen, his 
worn boots had coped to the limit today. Yet it was the darkness that 
disconcerted Danny Wilson most. Darkness seemed to change the shape of 
the city and he was finding it all so different. Ahead of him lay the 
prospect of a walk back to Burntwood with only the occasional light to 
point the way. But did it really matter? His whole world had been torn 
to shreds. The realisation of what he’d done had hit home with an 
effect even more powerful than the physical blow inflicted by her 
father which had drawn blood from his nose, blood that still ran, 
forming a tiny rivulet to his mouth. For without Charlotte there was no 
future; he could scarcely imagine his existence from now on, he didn’t 
seem to be able to think about anything without strange and hurtful 
patterns filling his head. These patterns seemed to deny him thinking. 
He needed his wits about him during the dark journey back but they 
seemed to be scattered far and wide, as if carried in the high wind 
that gusted into the gables of the Georgian buildings. Insensitive to 
the cold and rain, running blind, he reached the junction where Bore 
and Bird Street met. He entered Bird Street acting merely on impulse, 
uncertain of which way to turn. His chest heaving from his exertions he 
paused for a second as a pony and trap passed by, before placing a 
sleeve to his mouth and wearily wiping away the blood that was finally 
beginning to congeal. The animal’s hooves had barely stopped echoing on 
the cobbles before an automobile swung wildly into the street, its 
large mounted headlights bright and blinding. His mind in shreds he’d 
paid scant attention to the narrow road but now as he moved an arm to 
shield his dazzled eyes he stumbled against the kerb side. It threw him 
off balance and the large limousine which had been heading straight for 
him, brushed his side before accelerating towards St Johns Street, its 
impact still enough to send him sprawling to the roadside. He lay for 
several minutes in utter misery, his head spinning, shock lending its 
chilling hand to the most agonising day of his young life. He felt a 
dull awareness of the damp penetrating the ruined clothes his parents 
had scraped to buy, before a distant hum signified the approach of 
another motorcar. A cascade of wet snow plunged over Danny as the car 
ploughed through the slush soaking him to the skin. His demoralisation 
was complete. But the vehicle had stopped. It had pulled to a halt at 
the roadside, its long dark bonnet gleaming under the gaslight. The 
driver got out and stood over him for a moment, before stooping by his 
side and offering him a hand. Now as Danny was hauled up the man’s face 
became visible – and familiar. The fair haired man was Charlotte’s 
chauffeur, the one who’d driven her to their meetings and who she’d 
called her friend. But despite his pleasant face and the recognition 
Danny’s expression reflected fear; for this man worked for her dad who 
might even now be seated in the back of the big car. He envisaged 
another beating and cowered. 


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