Think I Have A Chance?

OK, so I'm 13 and in my 9th year in school. I've been boomed with repeated information at school about options, jobs and taster lessons on various subjects you can take. I've been told a numerous amount of times that my vocabulary is slightly more advanced than others my age, and since as long as I can remember I have been obsessed with creative writing. So I wrote a little something entirely by me and I want you to tell me what you think and if i would have any chance in being an author when I leave university (if I choose to.) Thanks and Enjoy! :)




Conscience Infinity

She was hurt, broken. She walked out into her dying garden, and bent down, her black converse almost completely concealed by the emerald grass beneath and her red stripy tights and red hoodie, engulfed by a thick, life absorbing mist which pressed against her face. She could feel the comparison to the cold of the outside, and the cold of heartbreak. Her oval golden necklace, latched around her neck by a delicate golden chain, pointed towards a rectangular stone. The grass and vines grew around it, curling and hugging themselves around the stone, just like her soul, curling around his. She was not forgetting. She was not forgiving. Brushing the vines off the damp stone with her small, weak fingers, a tear made it’s way down her cheek and fell from her small delicate chin, out of the shadow, cast by her long black hair, which haunted over her eyes. Through the air, and onto the stone.

She began reading the engraved words. Her fingers brushing over the text. “I will forever love you.” Pushing off from the ground, her feet sinking into the dew-bound grass. She walked up the graveyard path. Across the roads, Past the houses. Past life. But each little feature of the world meant nothing. All the colours around her had been masked by a thick tone of black and white. Her life was black and white, like the melting, flesh-eating pain of black sorrow.

It was night. The sky was dark but illuminated by an ocean of stars. She climbed into bed pulling the covers over her like a blanket of snow, freezing over her body. Her blood shot eyes could resemble the insanity, which ran discretely through her mind. She did not lay back and close her eyes. She did not wriggle down into her bed for comfort. Comfort was dead. He was dead. She stayed awake, sitting up, every night, like she had every night. Ever since he died. Getting out of bed got harder. But getting into bed was worse. Sleeping meant she had to dream. And her mind only subjected it’s self to one thing. One person. She did not have to question how long she would feel like this. She knew the answer to that. She new the love that sailed through her veins every hour, every minute, every second, through her brain, through her heart and through her soul. She knew how long it would last. She knew the stone’s bold text.“I will forever love you.”