This is a short story I am writing which is for university. Basically if this story is good enough, then it will earn me a place at university. So if you could please, please, please read and review to tell me what you think, I would be forever grateful! Thank you very much. I hope you all like it.
The smell of fine wood lingered lightly as I stared down warily at the square, wooden box perched in front of where I was crouched. It sat alone in a deserted cupboard beneath the stairs. Everybody had forgotten about this box, even me.
It had remained here for eight years but now, on my eighteenth birthday, eight months after my parents had both gone missing after an eight day holiday to Italy, and it seemed a poetic timing to finally reveal its contents, given that it was a present from Mum and Dad.
It was a small box; plain, dusty and old looking, with eight hearts shaped patterns scratched into the top. There were a few scratches lining the woodwork around the sides; eight, to be precise.
I felt as though it was somehow fate that had reminded me of the long forgotten box.
My fingers shook as I lifted my hands forwards but I ignored the anxiety that was twirling clumsily around in my stomach, like a great blundering elephant on ice.
I wiped the dust from the top of the box carelessly and allowed my hands to rest upon the top of the wooden box, as though holding onto it might give me some idea on the secrets this little box held.
Finally, I sighed in exasperation and forced my fingers to slide downwards and with one last inhale, I squeezed my eyes shut tight and forced open the lid of the box.
The smell of old books wafted through the air, making me curiously open one eye.
Inside was a tiny note, folded over repeatedly so that it fit into the small box rather snugly. I picked up the note warily, whilst my heart stammered far too loudly, giving away my fear of the unknown.
I hesitantly unfolded the note and my eyes focused onto a picture that was stapled to the top left of the piece of A4 paper. It was a picture of me, Mum and Dad in Australia; the eighth place I wanted to visit most.
I scanned the note cautiously and found an address written below the picture.
10 Beacon Hill
You're EIGHTH favourite place. Hope to see you soon.
A gasp of surprise filled the empty hallway without my permission and my free hand pressed against the cold wood tiles for support.
I wasn't stupid; I knew what this meant, despite how much I had once believed there had been no hope at all.
Mum and Dad were alive.
So what did everyone think of the ending? Please be honest with me as this is very important to me! Thank you. :)