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|Snowbird, an extract from chapter eleven (standard:drama, 586 words)|
|Author: Brian Cross||Added: Jan 20 2002||Views/Reads: 2370/1||Story 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. Tweet
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