English Creative

[jando]

Hey, I was wondering if someone could give some feedback on my creative.
Thanks in advance.

The silent scream in those dark eyes, a blackhole, sucking in my gaze, engaged in an everlasting staring contest. The silent ringing in my ears reverberating through my skull. Every muscle tensed, imprisoned by my own body, the smooth stock of the shotgun slides through my hands, clanging against the cold cement floor. Retreating back to innocence, in the warm confines of my father's embrace, my free flowing tears soak into his soft woollen fleece.

***

Daybreak stirs me from my slumber, the warm light penetrating my window, creeping its way up my walls like an ivy. Uncertainty grips my body, but I push on. Silently tiptoeing downstairs, the floorboards emitting a deafening creak with each plant of my foot, outside my father’s bedroom, blissfully unaware, radiates the rhythmic sound of his stupor. I’m now in his office, my attention towards the shotgun perched up on the wall, in the sleek, shining barrel I see an innocent young boy, messy, blonde hair, still groggy from sleep, the elegant glossy wooden stock, as smooth as glass, reflects the warm morning rays. How could a device be so beautiful, polished, graceful yet so powerful and destructive? A dangerous beauty, like fire that dances upon a candle wick, or roars upon a path of destruction. Carefully removing it from the rack, I nearly drop it, it’s very heavy. Cradling the weapon, a sense of power surges through me. My anticipation begins to build as I gingerly place a shell in each chamber. I know my target, I’ve been watching it, the high beam it comes to rest on for the day, cowering from the relentless sun. The grass crisply crunches as I make my way to the barn where my prize awaits. There it is, its brown feathers cloaking it against the rough wooden ceiling, its day-light riddled eyes staring back at me, oblivious to its coming fate. Slowly lifting the barrel I stare it down, one eye closed, biting my tongue. I take a deep breath, the smell of urine scented hay fills my nostrils, somewhere outside a bird chirps, I close my eyes, my finger curls around the trigger. A sharp crack, my shoulder is blasted with a strong thud that surges through my body, sending me stumbling back. My attention turns to the obscenity before me, as the owl beating its only wing spirals into the hay. A sense of regret overwhelms me, horrified at the cruelty I have exhibited, for I had believed death clean and final, not this obscene. Hearing the familiar crunching of grass behind me, my father rushes into the barn, his messy hair and bed clothes contrasting starkly with the urgency and worry in his eyes, which quickly turned to disappointment and slight relief. With a sigh, he scoops up the shotgun, one still in the chamber and hands it to me; “End what you have begun”.
Terror began to envelop me, for I did not want to face what I had done. Gently taking the gun from my father, taking a deep breath, I trudged to where the poor bird struggled. Raising the barrel one more time, the faint smell of gunpowder fills my nostrils, my finger curls around the trigger. And then deafening silence.

[bangtansonyeondan]

Hello, this sounds exactly like Gwen Harwood's poem Barn Owl.