The school is having a G&T (Gifted and Talented) assembly. Being one of the only pupils who can stomach public speaking I was asked, and of course I accepted. Not to read my own poetry I might add, just to read someone else’s. But on hearing us read the peices, Mrs Macleary decided that The Victim (A short story about a murderer who gets murdered), Crepton Tower (A poem about a tower where everyone who goes in is brutally murdered) and Jasmine (a girl from my debating group)’s gothic horror story about a boy who has trouble controlling the fact that he sometimes turns into a wolf with wings, might scare the year fives. So there we were three horrible pieces of work (horrible as in, gruesome, gory, scary. Not horrible as in rubbish, bad, terrible) and a group of small children going to our assembly in two weeks. So I did what any writer would have done. I sat down and wrote out word for word (give or take a sentence or two) a poem I had written a while back. The story of Hellbrush. Basically when we (me and my brothers) were younger Dad used to brush our hair, because we all have curly hair it was painful and he always used the same big black brush to do it. In time fthat brush was nicknamed HellBrush. One day HellBrush went missing, when Henry asked where he was Dad said “Maybe the devil took him back!”
Half an hour later and HellBrush was imortallised in a ballad. Here’s the gist of it:
The poem starts by telling you where HellBrush came from. The first verse explains that though people say he was made in a factory, he was actually carved by the devil.
Then you learn how he brushes. This was slightly exxagerated, to the point of which I had him pulling out all your hair and leaving your head bald and covered in blood and tears.
We learn how he was handed down through this family and every time they tried to get rid of him he is brought back by demons.
And (bad grammar!) we now hear of how the family celabrates as HellBrush is taken back by the devil, but the story ends with a warning.
As the devil is bald as a boiled egg, there is a chance that HellBrush could grow bored.
So if you see a big brush with a handle of black, then remember ‘BUYER BEWARE!’
Only problem is, my victory seems slightly hollow. Mrs Macleary was desperate for something happy and humourous, I think she’d have taken a badly spelled poem with no ryhmes and no pattern about how boring and rubbish English lessons are if she’d been offered one. I can’t help but think. If she wanted my work, why didn’t she ask for it in the first place?
Though it could have something to do with the fact that I haven’t written many short stories lately.