Was feeling bored this evening, so decided to start writing a short story (completely fictional). I would appreciate any feedback on the initial paragraph.
From a young age, money had always been a mystery to me. I know it might sound strange, but seeing cash exchange hands, pile up in the tills in shops, vaults in banks and into the pockets of ordinary people attracted me closer and closer to it; as though it was some sort of magnet and I was helplessly stuck in the way. Pieces of paper, which would have usually been reserved for my colouring pens, could get you anything you could have possibly wanted. Shiny scraps of metal jingled in pockets as old and young walked down the road, clattering and rattling, pleading to be let out of their cages. These pieces of paper and scraps of metal had value. Value that could give you ice-cream over canned cabbage; race cars over stinking, overcrowded buses and most importantly; friendship over isolation. The man in the sleeping bag on the street had only a couple of bronze scraps in his chewed up cup. A sign to me that he would be having canned cabbage, alone, for supper.
Read this extract from a story?
|Last day to win £100 of Amazon vouchers - don't miss out! Take our quick survey to enter||24-10-2016|