Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-24774864-20140404173503

Hi, I'm Andy. I'm 16 and take english language at A level. I've always liked writing and figured I might try to write a piece outside of the course, so here it is. It was really spontaneous, not that well thought-out but I've got an idea for the plot in my head if anyone thinks I should continue it. I'd love constructive criticism so I know how to improve, writing what little I've wrote so far has been relaxing so I might do it more in the future. Anyway, here's the piece so far.

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Rain taps rhythmically on my window, each drop leaving a trail that does nothing to help the view: a thick, grey-white fog obscures all but the largest objects. There's not much view, so putting my phone down I go downstairs. My house is a small, two -story place that sits across the road from a park. I say this in the loosest sense of the term, because if I've ever seen a kid playing there then I must be blind as hell. Subsequently, I guess I'd be making this all up. I wish. I'll remember today, because when the fog leaves the raincoat man appears. It's Saturday, and that means no work. I work at an office for an insurance firm you won't have heard of. For every one of these firms that the radio shoves in your ear, there's another three that swim in mediocrity. I was going to go out with some guys from work, but in this weather? Screw that. I've phoned them and told them all I'm not getting dragged around town getting more soaked than drunk, we can go out next week or something. The rest of the morning goes by in a haze, I'm not sure why but by lunch I'm in a distinct state of melancholy - I eat my sandwich and fall back into a time-consuming cycle of lying watching TV and sleeping. When I get up, it's gone six in the evening. I'm not hungry, but I go search the kitchen for something I can eat. I stare blankly into the fridge for awhile, nothing appealing to me. I'm not hungry anyway, so I opt for a cup of tea. Filling the kettle, I notice that the fog's receded. It's diminished to a thin veil, the rain merely a trickle. From the kitchen window I can see across the front of my house, and it's from the kitchen window that I first see him. A man stands by the park, almost directly opposite me from the road. While the rusted swings sway gently in the wind, he is motionless. He wears dark jeans and a slick black raincoat, which has been pulled over his head loosely. He doesn't look at me, he faces down the road at ninety degrees to me; oblivious to my existence. How can he stand so still? Hell, I don't know why I care. He's probably waiting for somebody, but even so, I feel goosebumps break across my well-wrapped arms. I'm about to go back to pouring the kettle, but I can't look away. He's snagged my attention, and I'm still trying to pry myself free when he begins to turn towards me. It's slow, and it's deliberate. Some immature, primal fear takes hold of me and I turn away from the window to finish my tea. I hastily pour it, but I still feel uneasy. I need to set my mind at rest, I need to see that he's gone, or that he didn't look. I ignore the growing dread and turn to glance out of the window. He's staring right at me. I see little of his face, only his ice-blue eyes and his sharp nose. It's all I want to see, and I hastily scramble to get back to my sofa; closing the kitchen door behind me. The rest of the day flits by with nothing happening, but I make a point not to look out of any of the windows today. I go to bed at around eleven, when the dreariness of the day finally wears me down. The only notable thing today was that creep across the road, and subsequently it's the only thing there to occupy my mind when my head hits the pillow. I have no idea why he unnerved me so much, he wasn't exactly twirling blades between his fingers and he didn't look that remarkable. Average. He looked average. I don't do shit on Sunday, and that includes looking out the window. I'm being stupid, but I'm just trying to get that guy out my head. Note to self: pick up some stuff for sandwiches later in the week, not a damn thing in the fridge. Monday, nice. My alarm calls me into everybody's favorite day, and I force myself up .I just about get myself fed and dressed in time for work, and it's just eight when I'm out the door. I lock the door, and it's only then that I notice him. Same raincoat, same jeans. He's just standing in the same place, he's staring right at me. I'm a twenty-eight year old man but this fucking lunatic was really getting to me. I pretend I haven't seen him, I pretend we didn't make eye contact. I look away and pick up my pace, almost running to my car. 