Inside the box lie the worst fears of everyone. There it sat, in the middle of the room, like an executioner waiting for its victim. The four of us watched it, weary. It began to shake; then, ever so slowly the lid creaked open. It turned to look at him. All of a sudden the room was filled with flames. They consumed me – choked me. The smoke viciously attacked the back of my throat, making it impossible to breathe as it snatched away every last breath of oxygen I had. My heart was pounding with adrenaline and I thought I was going to die. Then through the roaring of the flames a distant voice shouted, “Ridikkulus!” And the blazing inferno turned into beautiful fireworks. I took a deep breath of fresh air, as I watched them dance across the room, twinkling like stars.
Creative writing
The 427th Quidditch world cup final
My eyes flew open. The bright white pierced my pupils, stabbing tiny pinpricks of light into my eyes. I didn’t care. Today is the day; the day of the Quidditch world cup final. Excitement tore through me like a racing car around a track. My palms were sweating and my only thoughts were of Quidditch. I thundered downstairs like a herd of elephants, excitement stealing all elements of self-control I may have had. Bacon was frying on the stove, its fragrant odour reached my nostrils and I inhaled the god like sent. I pulled the worn chair from the table and sat down with an ominous creek. I placed the bacon in my mouth and my taste buds exploded. The salty sweet taste erupted – it was heaven. I continued my divine breakfast, worshipping each mouthful as though the Holy Spirit was contained within. I finished my glorious breakfast and raced back upstairs, my state of euphoria returning after my brief period of composure. I brushed my teeth in a matter of seconds, the cool minty taste washing away any lingering tastes of bacon, then rinsed out my mouth where the icy water created a small inferno in my mouth. My breath coming out in small puffs of steam like a fluffy clouds on a summer’s day, I raced into my room (though admittedly at a slightly slower pace). Pulling my dark red sweater over my head I was soon dressed. The jumper, though itchy, showed my adoring support for Bulgaria. Back downstairs in record time I threw open the front door and stepped out into the morning. My Father trailed behind, at a slightly slower pace, laden down with bags; I raced on in front the grass glistening and each individual drop of dew shining in the sunlight like stars in the night sky.
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