short story for competition - any good and improvements
I don’t really know why I’m writing this. It was suggested by a friend to do so. It was either this or talk about my issues directly with someone, and that’s not something I’m very good at. It’s not that I’m incapable; I just tend to split things into little pieces, small chunks, but I never give anyone the whole picture of me. I guess that’s why I’m doing this—to combine the puzzles and pieces of my life that I’ve kept so separate and hidden.
Years of separating have made me lose my sense of identity and who I really am. This is strange timing, too. These next two years are going to be the busiest of my life, but I knew that if I didn’t do this now, I was never going to do it. This probably makes no sense, and I apologize for that. I also can’t guarantee that I’ll be able to continue this very often.
I’m a very busy person. I do four A-levels and an EPQ—far more than what the average A-level student does. Of course, it was never entirely my choice, and I think, as this narrative (or whatever this is) goes on, you’ll find that I don’t really have much choice in my life. Or maybe I do, and I just haven’t had the will to find it yet.
As well as my education i do a lot of managing for my dads businesses , emails, and extra meetings. You would think me being so involved in it means i know alot about his job but really i dont. All I know is that he owns a few restaurants, flats and investments here and there but the actual details, locations or even the names of these I couldn't tell or even guess. The only thing i do know for clear is that he owns the creams up n wembley as im i 'm in charge of advertising through social media.
I would say our family is very well-off because we live in one of the nicest houses in Ealing. But I never really liked our house. Maybe if our family didn’t live in it, I would have liked it more. Ever since we moved in, it seems the house has only brought trouble. They say money is misfortune in disguise, and I truly believe that. Maybe it’s because I’m young and don’t yet understand its value, but I remember a time when life was much simpler, Back when all we had was our small caravan, life felt magical.
The mornings greeted us with gentle rays of sunlight filtering through small windows, casting a golden hue upon the oak floors, complementing the hand-knit rugs meticulously placed throughout. Every element within the van carried its own story, yet together, they formed a cohesive tapestry, like puzzle pieces perfectly fused. Its small size wasn’t a burden but a blessing, as it meant we were always within each other’s loving sights. Something was always cooking, and the aromas would seep into the walls, staining them with the soulful smell of rich food. To an outsider, our little home might have seemed a chaotic mess, but to us, it was perfect. Once my father returned home, we’d run to him with open arms, and despite his exhaustion, he’d scoop us up like a gentle grizzly bear, lifting us high enough to feel the sun’s warmth on our faces. With his hard-earned wages, we would buy just enough for groceries: chili peppers, spices, cucumbers, turmeric, and fresh lamb, which my mother transformed into a feast of samosas, chaats, and curries. Even our parrot joined in, squawking, “Let me out too!” (and yes i have well had a parrot )and flapping her wings with joy as we shared the feast, laughter mingling with the aroma of spices. At night, my father and I squeezed into a tiny bed meant for much smaller people, gazing at the stars through the open roof. The vast, glittering night sky ignited my imagination, filling me with dreams and thoughts far too big for a small girl. In those moments, surrounded by love and simplicity, I couldn’t help but marvel at my beautiful life and how lucky I truly was.
How i would kill for those days
Now, we live on a main road. People often walk past our house. Most just glance and move on, but occasionally, someone will comment on how “lucky” I must be. And don’t get me wrong—I have many fortunes others don’t. But as this goes on, you’ll see that “luck” is something I lack tremendously.
I remember those caravan years, even if the details have faded. They hold some of the happiest memories of my life. Maybe it’s because I was young, and my mind filtered out anything negative. But I truly believe that if we were still in that caravan, I’d be far happier.
Don’t get me wrong—we still take it for a quick spin and travel in it every now and then. Those trips are rare now, though, and they seem to happen less and less as the years go by. When we do, it feels like a fleeting glimpse of the life we used to have. There’s a certain nostalgia that washes over me every time we step inside, like the walls themselves are holding onto memories.
The seats are worn but familiar, and the faint smell of spices lingers, as if the caravan is holding onto the past just as tightly as I am. We laugh and talk during those trips, almost like the old days, but it’s different now—like a photograph that’s faded with time. It’s bittersweet, knowing that these moments are rare and fleeting, yet still so precious.
In contrast, our house is massive—far too many rooms than we need. Everyone tends to stay in their own areas, and it’s not unusual for me to go an entire day without even seeing my siblings, even though we all live under the same roof.
The bottom floor was heavily decorated—over-decorated, really. It was meant to impress anyone who entered, but it lacked warmth. If anything, it felt more like a fancy hotel than a home. Everything was oversized—the tables, the mirrors, and especially the TV. The air often smelled heavily of alcohol or cigars, but if you were lucky, it carried the aroma of one of my mom’s wonderful recipes.The middle floor, where our bedrooms were, had more of a homely touch but still lacked the comfort the caravan had. It was like the essence of a home had been stripped away, leaving behind only a hollow shell.Finally, there was the top floor, which was specifically for one of my dad’s many girlfriends, who visited far more often than I liked.
Money ruined my dad, and in the process, it ruined my mom, too. I don’t want to go into too much detail now because, well, I’m still new to expressing emotions. But ever since we moved into this house, they’ve become colder, as if life has choked them and left them pale. They argue more. My father has become more aggressive as if the money drained all the love he had with narcacstic pride . He lost his love for his wife to pennies and pride. And my mother? She’s lost all the love in her. But that’s a story for another chapter, not something I’m ready to talk about now, especially with everything that’s happened these past few weeks.
Sometimes, when everyone’s asleep, I look through the glass of my window at the caravan. It sits rotting in our front parking lot, imprisoned by the huge metal gates surrounding it.and those magical fantasies come back. I wonder how different life would have been if everything hadn’t changed. Would my parents still love each other? Would my dad have never started drinking? How would my mom be? How would I be?
Then I stare at the cold wall above me, and it shifts me back to reality.
I don’t know why I chose the caravan to be my first chapter. I guess metaphorically represents my life very well, sort of a baseline for everything else. And i guess it just nicer to write about this being my fist chapter and all and It’s not the most important thing that has affected me, and I’ve experienced far worse .But the question always lingers with me—would I have even faced all those troubles if we had stayed there?
I guess I’ll never know. Still, I can’t shake this feeling that if I could just rewind time and stay in one place forever… but ill never know i dont have much of a choice anyways.
Years of separating have made me lose my sense of identity and who I really am. This is strange timing, too. These next two years are going to be the busiest of my life, but I knew that if I didn’t do this now, I was never going to do it. This probably makes no sense, and I apologize for that. I also can’t guarantee that I’ll be able to continue this very often.
I’m a very busy person. I do four A-levels and an EPQ—far more than what the average A-level student does. Of course, it was never entirely my choice, and I think, as this narrative (or whatever this is) goes on, you’ll find that I don’t really have much choice in my life. Or maybe I do, and I just haven’t had the will to find it yet.
As well as my education i do a lot of managing for my dads businesses , emails, and extra meetings. You would think me being so involved in it means i know alot about his job but really i dont. All I know is that he owns a few restaurants, flats and investments here and there but the actual details, locations or even the names of these I couldn't tell or even guess. The only thing i do know for clear is that he owns the creams up n wembley as im i 'm in charge of advertising through social media.
I would say our family is very well-off because we live in one of the nicest houses in Ealing. But I never really liked our house. Maybe if our family didn’t live in it, I would have liked it more. Ever since we moved in, it seems the house has only brought trouble. They say money is misfortune in disguise, and I truly believe that. Maybe it’s because I’m young and don’t yet understand its value, but I remember a time when life was much simpler, Back when all we had was our small caravan, life felt magical.
The mornings greeted us with gentle rays of sunlight filtering through small windows, casting a golden hue upon the oak floors, complementing the hand-knit rugs meticulously placed throughout. Every element within the van carried its own story, yet together, they formed a cohesive tapestry, like puzzle pieces perfectly fused. Its small size wasn’t a burden but a blessing, as it meant we were always within each other’s loving sights. Something was always cooking, and the aromas would seep into the walls, staining them with the soulful smell of rich food. To an outsider, our little home might have seemed a chaotic mess, but to us, it was perfect. Once my father returned home, we’d run to him with open arms, and despite his exhaustion, he’d scoop us up like a gentle grizzly bear, lifting us high enough to feel the sun’s warmth on our faces. With his hard-earned wages, we would buy just enough for groceries: chili peppers, spices, cucumbers, turmeric, and fresh lamb, which my mother transformed into a feast of samosas, chaats, and curries. Even our parrot joined in, squawking, “Let me out too!” (and yes i have well had a parrot )and flapping her wings with joy as we shared the feast, laughter mingling with the aroma of spices. At night, my father and I squeezed into a tiny bed meant for much smaller people, gazing at the stars through the open roof. The vast, glittering night sky ignited my imagination, filling me with dreams and thoughts far too big for a small girl. In those moments, surrounded by love and simplicity, I couldn’t help but marvel at my beautiful life and how lucky I truly was.
How i would kill for those days
Now, we live on a main road. People often walk past our house. Most just glance and move on, but occasionally, someone will comment on how “lucky” I must be. And don’t get me wrong—I have many fortunes others don’t. But as this goes on, you’ll see that “luck” is something I lack tremendously.
I remember those caravan years, even if the details have faded. They hold some of the happiest memories of my life. Maybe it’s because I was young, and my mind filtered out anything negative. But I truly believe that if we were still in that caravan, I’d be far happier.
Don’t get me wrong—we still take it for a quick spin and travel in it every now and then. Those trips are rare now, though, and they seem to happen less and less as the years go by. When we do, it feels like a fleeting glimpse of the life we used to have. There’s a certain nostalgia that washes over me every time we step inside, like the walls themselves are holding onto memories.
The seats are worn but familiar, and the faint smell of spices lingers, as if the caravan is holding onto the past just as tightly as I am. We laugh and talk during those trips, almost like the old days, but it’s different now—like a photograph that’s faded with time. It’s bittersweet, knowing that these moments are rare and fleeting, yet still so precious.
In contrast, our house is massive—far too many rooms than we need. Everyone tends to stay in their own areas, and it’s not unusual for me to go an entire day without even seeing my siblings, even though we all live under the same roof.
The bottom floor was heavily decorated—over-decorated, really. It was meant to impress anyone who entered, but it lacked warmth. If anything, it felt more like a fancy hotel than a home. Everything was oversized—the tables, the mirrors, and especially the TV. The air often smelled heavily of alcohol or cigars, but if you were lucky, it carried the aroma of one of my mom’s wonderful recipes.The middle floor, where our bedrooms were, had more of a homely touch but still lacked the comfort the caravan had. It was like the essence of a home had been stripped away, leaving behind only a hollow shell.Finally, there was the top floor, which was specifically for one of my dad’s many girlfriends, who visited far more often than I liked.
Money ruined my dad, and in the process, it ruined my mom, too. I don’t want to go into too much detail now because, well, I’m still new to expressing emotions. But ever since we moved into this house, they’ve become colder, as if life has choked them and left them pale. They argue more. My father has become more aggressive as if the money drained all the love he had with narcacstic pride . He lost his love for his wife to pennies and pride. And my mother? She’s lost all the love in her. But that’s a story for another chapter, not something I’m ready to talk about now, especially with everything that’s happened these past few weeks.
Sometimes, when everyone’s asleep, I look through the glass of my window at the caravan. It sits rotting in our front parking lot, imprisoned by the huge metal gates surrounding it.and those magical fantasies come back. I wonder how different life would have been if everything hadn’t changed. Would my parents still love each other? Would my dad have never started drinking? How would my mom be? How would I be?
Then I stare at the cold wall above me, and it shifts me back to reality.
I don’t know why I chose the caravan to be my first chapter. I guess metaphorically represents my life very well, sort of a baseline for everything else. And i guess it just nicer to write about this being my fist chapter and all and It’s not the most important thing that has affected me, and I’ve experienced far worse .But the question always lingers with me—would I have even faced all those troubles if we had stayed there?
I guess I’ll never know. Still, I can’t shake this feeling that if I could just rewind time and stay in one place forever… but ill never know i dont have much of a choice anyways.
Reply 1
not 100%. sure il I will be submitting this depends on the feedback I get from here and my teacher also plese ignore the seeing mistakes im dyslexic
Reply 2
also any tips on how to make the flow and the ending better
Quick Reply
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