Can you read my short story and give me any tips or advice?

I've written a short story for english and know it needs improving. Could you maybe read through it and offer any advice or tips on how to improve it?


thanks





The email





I shambled along the road that leads to home, reluctant to arrive just yet. It was darkening now and the cold was beginning to bite my hands and nose. It was drizzling as well, not enough to warrant an umbrella, but enough to cause annoyance. My feet slapped against the wet ground, the sound echoed and made it clear that I was alone. The air hung with that autumn smell: bonfires with the underlying scent of crisp, cold air. The streetlights cast a burnt orange light onto this scene.





I swung the front door open and felt obliged to whisper; so as not to break the silence that had enveloped the house. I kicked my shoes off into a corner. I glanced a mirror and turned to confront it. I glared at the image there- challenging it. A swarm of freckles were smeared across my nose and cheeks. My nose curved upwards slightly and my lips were thin and tight. My hair was a nondescript mouse-brown which was in need of washing and the long, thin plaits clung to my scalp. My eyes were, in my opinion, the only good part of me. They were quite large and hazel and rimmed by long, dark eyelashes. I lifted my top and grabbed a handful of fat, the skin was pale and lightly freckled, wishing I could pull it off and just be done with it.





I dragged my eyes away and went to turn the computer on. It was primitive and took almost five minutes to hum and whir into life. There was an unread email- an unusual occurrence; to everyone at school I was just a dirty, disgusting “lesbo”. The words rooted me to my seat:


“We have been watching you. I can help.”


Despite the comforting quality and meaning of the words, I realised that the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck were standing up. Hands shaking slightly, I tapped back:


“Who are you?”


“You don’t have any idea?” was the instant reply. I thought for a second before repeating;


“Who are you?” Again the reply came almost instantaneously,


“Overtime we have been known as many things: seraphim, devas, Malaa’ika, Fravishi. I am an Angel Laurel.”


I swear my heart skipped a beat. My stomach contracted and tightened in a sinking motion. And the very idea forced an uneasy laugh from my lips… but I couldn’t totally dismiss the notion. For some reason it was easier to believe, isolated in an empty house, than in the whirl and agitation of day to day life.





I was fairly sure I was an Agnostic. But any god would always be thought about as distant. Not really relevant or important at the time. Something that was best left for later life. While I had been sitting there, letting it sink it and contemplating the idea, another email had popped up


“Do you trust me?” Taking a deep breath and steeling myself inside I wrote,


“I think so.”


Again the answer was almost instantaneous:


“Then come and meet me on Arbury Road, by the church in ten minutes.”





I felt as if it wasn’t me that tugged her coat on and locked the door; like I was watching another Laurel Yourke. I don’t know what strange volition caused me to go, but I remember feeling almost pulled- like a moth to a flame- towards the meeting place. Uncertainty was drowned out by an intense curiosity.





Stomach twisted with apprehension and heart beating fast I turned round the corner, onto Arbury Road. Instead of seeing someone which could have guided me, looked after me and numbed the pain of the insufferable loneliness I constantly felt… I saw a crowd of around seven boys and girls- all of whom where in the year above me at school. I stood like a deer in headlights, shock rooting me to the spot and I felt a lump rise in my throat. As soon as they saw me they erupted into peals of helpless laughter. One of the boys was roaring over and over again “I can’t believe she believed us. I can’t believe she actually fell for it.”


Here another chimed in with:


“She is seriously messed up. Haha, what a whack job!”





I turned and ran blindly, until my legs couldn’t carry me any further. The jeers still hung in the air. To me they were everywhere – I could feel them on my skin, making me feel dirty. Tears had over flown long ago and were streaming uncontrollably down my face, and showing no sign of stopping. Sobs wracked my body and my shoulders heaved up and down. I was aching with pain and embarrassment.





Eventually the crying subsided, the howling turned to snivels which eventually died down to nothing but the occasional moan or sniff. I yawned and realised that I was sitting on a grassy park of some sort. Crying had completely exhausted me, so I curled into a ball and lay on the damp grass in the foetal position- looking at the stars. Just thinking... The email earlier although it had lead to immense embarrassment, the subject had interested me.





I slight breeze blew over me and suddenly I felt calm. And it’s hard to describe, but I really did feel like thCan you read my short story and give me any tips or advice?
Its an interesting story, as in how someone would like to change, but cannot. A moral lesson can be learned from the short tale, and that could be, you are who you are, and your differences make you unique, or simply the fact that you desperately need a facial lift. Despite the fact the main character in this story does not appreciate his differences, We should learn to accept who we are. the powerful description magnifies how much he detestes his physical appearance,


and also possibly may suggest why he is being picked on, and verbally bullied. Its a powerful short story, with strong emotional description, which really gets the point across to the reader. You have selected extremely appropriate use of descriptional content, but maybe a bit too strong for my liking. Although i wouldn't trust some bozo who just Emailed you, saying he can make you look good, it is in some peoples nature that they will, doing anything to change what they despise so much about themselves. You really get the sense that he must change his appearance and that he hates himself so much, that he is like a pale moth, drawn to a warm glowing like. Personally, i think thats one of the best metaphors i have ever heard. In conclusion, This story may go a tiny smigin over the top with such powerful description, that it can be too much to consume in one chunk of writing. Although a great short story, I dont think you, or anyone else would choose to meet someone at night next to a church and graveyard. i would tell them to Piss Off. -----Great story--- 9.95/10---








-----EDIT----- Also, an extremely fitting, mysterious and vague title which encourages the reader to instantly get stuck in. Good choice.Can you read my short story and give me any tips or advice?
For a website like this, that's quite a long story
Very very descriptive, how long did it take you to do it? And i'm sure your teach will be very content with it ^^