I looked out of the window, the day's sky was dark, the dimly lit room covered with cobwbes and a deadly silence waiting to be broken by the slamming of the door.  I sat in my usual place, isolated in the corner.  Life was grim. I looked about, only to be surrounded by a crowd of judging eyes: I was alone, cold, scared and I was trapped. Clouds blocked out the sun, I felt the mild wind through the tiny window crack. 

We heard the slick footsteps echo off the floor.  He was approaching.  Obviously angry, he slammed the door. His hair was chestnut brown and his hair was parting, he had combed it over to hide it, but that just made it the funnier. He always had one scrag of curly hair drooping down and occasionally he would blow up to move it, like a horse. Today was not the day to annoy him. I stretched out to yawn.

Then I felt something thin, a strand of hair even, but it was not, but part of a string, the clever-fisherman boy, as he liked me to call him, had hooked something over the iron bar and it was dangling above the teacher's shiny head.  Something viper-like struck my hand and then darted back into a pocket. I pulled my hands back and watched anxiously, and I thought:

Today was not the day,

Today was not the day.

James, Year Eight