Hi
I would be so grateful if someone could read my creative writing and give me a mark out of 24 for content and organisation, and a mark out of 16 for accuracy of language and ambitious vocabulary. This will be so helpful to me so please help me out!!
Thank you so much!!
Although the half-open gates are tempting, something residing in the cat softly tells her to reconsider her decision to enter the arena of blackness – the arena of uncertainty. Negligence radiates off her: chunks of obsidian, shaggy fur is attached haphazardly upon her body, as if by a creature who only vaguely had an understanding of the appearance of a cat, and it partly obscures her wide, intrigued eyes. Her raw, pink skin is visible in between gaps – her hair barely covers her – while her paws are barely perceptible from under the mountains of dirt that has accumulated on her legs, as she has spent decades on the corners of streets.
She flinches and gazes up as fragments of rock and sickening green moss cascade down, blinding her pensive, lurid, yellow eyes. The stone arch itself is visible cracking, forming ominous patterns like those found in scorching, drought-hit countries. Indeed, the whole place thirsts for pure, life-giving water. A pair of gargantuan wrought-iron gates are feebly attached to the disintegrating arch, but the gates themselves are strong – formidable, even – as they creek heavily in a chilling, welcoming call…
Why do I feel like turning back?
Overcome by a sudden, pulling force, she bounds into the confines of the mysterious grounds and immediately ascends the nearest tree, scurrying like a miniscule creature fleeing from a vicious predator. However, once she reaches halfway, her sharp, angular ears twitch as they adjust to an unfamiliar, screeching sound. Frozen, she glances down and becomes hyperaware of the tree gently, but almost resolutely, swaying. The tips of the branches are like thorns, twisted expertly in the shape of spears, and she notices they are thin enough to slice through her, with a disturbing sense of recognition that promptly sends spasms down her curved spine.
Why do I feel like turning back?
Whiskers tingling, hair rising on end, paws tensing for flight, she takes a long, calming, refreshing breath, only that he nostrils are permeated with an ancient, musky smell. The malodorous odor appears to originate from the leaves themselves: they are degrading, dead, decomposing, mirroring her own mind’s sensations. Realisation dawns as the cat begins to understand why she was warned not to set foot behind these walls, but an opaque cloud of mist overpowers her vision – overwhelms her thoughts – and her warm eyes blank. To her, the mist, with a preternatural heir, call out to her; it summons her to the deeper depths of these mysterious grounds.
The swiftly moving shadows of mist are tempting, but this time, nothing resides in her to softly tell her to reconsider her decision to enter the arena of blackness – the arena of uncertainty.
Why do I feel curious?