My Attempts at Creative Writing.

So, since I'm doing a English Course at college, I am having a go at some creative writing, and in class we had to write a few short openings or stories, so here they are. The first one, based on the Gothic style (as are most of the shorts, mainly due to the fact that that is the required genre) the 2nd one based on the sentence "A homeless man is looking into a luxurious house on Christmas eve, the 3rd and 4th are very similar, the 1st one based on the snow we have had in the last month, the second one is a slightly more sinister approach to the previous script.

The Castle (working title)
“Go on, I dare you” Steve said with a laugh. “Unless you’re chicken”
“No one calls me chicken!” I shouted back; already battling through the rain, climbing over the broken, rotting fence and slipping up the cobbled path.
“Besides, what’s the worse that could happen?” I added, tripping on a protruding rock and face planting the muddy floor. The water, surging down the meandering path cascaded over my face. Wiping my eyes, I looked up. The Lynchfield Manor loomed over the village of Witch-wikety, paralysing the residents with fear. The tall spikes pierced the dark sky which was heavy with ominous clouds. As lightening crackled and flashed in the distance the castle cast sinister contours through the sheet of rain, which raced down my back, alongside a shiver that chilled my bones. My clothes were heavy with water. Stumbling up the path, covering my face with the palm of my hand, I slipped again. Catching myself once more I looked back, but the fence let alone Steve’s spindly figure were gone, they had been enveloped in the oncoming mist and rain. Alone I continued up the damned path I was close enough now to see a solid silhouette of the castle. Suddenly my heart sank, my brain froze and a shiver big enough to hit the Richter scale ran down my spine, a yellow hue appeared in one of the spires. A room light. I couldn’t go back, I wasn’t chicken. I had to go in.

A Man (Working Title)
Sheets of snow pelted the heap of rags which lay contorted on the paving; it shifted closer to the stone wall, in the hope of absorbing the heat which emanated from the warm noisy room which lay concealed behind it, the smell of roast duck leaked through the window above the heap which began to stir. A figure rose from the dark pile, it peered into the window gripping the snow laden frame, a nose pressed against the cold glass, he saw a child run around a glittering Christmas tree, covered in bawl balls that rotated peacefully whilst the star on top twinkled as though the light from the ebony fire was concealed inside the ornament itself. Another child ran past the tree, tinsel flowing behind him, he tripped on a toy, a red wooden train, and fell to the burgundy carpet; tears flooded the child’s eyes. A young, beautiful woman strode over to the fallen youth and held him against her frilled dress; the faint sobbing was soon overcome by her soft singing. The figure stepped away slowly from the window into the consuming snow, a tear froze on his cheek as he shuffled into the moonlight, stepping away from the house for the second instance this Christmas.

Snow
6.46 am. The ceiling of grey seals away any of the early dawn that could exist on a cold heavy February morn. The torrents of snow assaults the roads, houses and beaches, footsteps left by early scufflers and post deliverers fade away under fresh sheets of the invasion. The Yellow hue of the street lighters is obscured by the swarm of flakes. The tide desperately repels the white, alien substance, but to no avail. The docked boats indistinguishable to the parked cars. A stray cat, caught in the attack seeks shelter in an overturned bin which could easily be mistaken for a tree trunk. The snow bombards the roads that were so under prepared for such an onslaught that they succumb to their assailant, cutting off the small village from the outer world. Faint lights appear all around; life stirs as the chime rings for 7.

Black Ice
6.46 am. The bleak insipid charcoal coat seals away any hope that accompanies the chance of an early dawn on a cold, constricting February morn. The torrent of white assaults the desolate paths, roads and houses. Footsteps long since left by early scufflers and post deliverers are inexistent in the bare paving which is covered in the new invasion. The flicker of a street lighter casts an ominous hue through the swarm of flaks. A morning tide feebly battles the white alien substance. Docked boats undistinguishable from their tarmac counter parts. A figure lamely limps to an overturned bin for shelter; the new sanctuary straining under the weight of its foreign cover. The assailant from the sky bombards the desolate roads which lie as forgotten as the village it connects to. Even though strands of light begin to forlornly struggle through the wall of cloud no life stirs at the chime of 7.