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Mick
Mick was a quiet boy. He kept to himself, always up in his room reading his books, or writing, which was another thing he loved to do, and was also very skilled at. He would read many books each week, and at school, he hardly knew any body, as he was very shy, .so people just assumed he was strange and didn’t assoicate themselves with him.
He lived at home with his mother, who he loved dearly, and his father had died years ago, when he was only four. He was an only child.
He was a skinny boy, average height for his age of fifteen about to be sixteen, and had beautiful hair for a boy, it was very long and silky, past his shoulders, very very thick and brown with a slight wave to it, and part of it would partly cover his face, hiding one of his eyes. And it always, always looked perfect. He had the most handsome face, taking after his father, it had a lovely strong, yet still soft and pretty shape to it, he had gorgeous big brown eyes and the cutest little nose.
He dressed quite simply, one of his favourite pieces of clothing being a brown woolen sweater, with a blue stripe accross the chest.
The house he lived in was rather large, his father’s death had left him and his mother with quite a bit of money, and this was the house his father grew up in, so they decided to keep it, besides, it had all Mick’s memories of his father in it.
It was two story, beautiful victorian style house, With Mick’s room upstairs and his mothers down below.
His mother was a beautiful woman, she had the softest, blonde hair that curled wonderfully, sitting nicely on her shoulders. Today she chose to wear a light pink silk blouse with a black high waisted pencil skirt, it looked astounding on her, being thirty-six, she could easily be mistaken for twenty-six.
She would always be bringing her son new books, his room was almost a library, it had that many books, three of the four walls were covered in shelves, filled with books. Fiction, mainly, and his desk, it was cluttered with paper, parts of stories never finished, random thoughts that came into his head, if he wasn’t reading a book, he was typing away on that thing. He did not have a television or anything like that, but on his window sill he had a small brown radio, which he loved to listen to into the night as he fell asleep, just listening to the people’s voices, and the slow songs taking him into his dreams.
He lived at home with his mother, who he loved dearly, and his father had died years ago, when he was only four. He was an only child.
He was a skinny boy, average height for his age of fifteen about to be sixteen, and had beautiful hair for a boy, it was very long and silky, past his shoulders, very very thick and brown with a slight wave to it, and part of it would partly cover his face, hiding one of his eyes. And it always, always looked perfect. He had the most handsome face, taking after his father, it had a lovely strong, yet still soft and pretty shape to it, he had gorgeous big brown eyes and the cutest little nose.
He dressed quite simply, one of his favourite pieces of clothing being a brown woolen sweater, with a blue stripe accross the chest.
The house he lived in was rather large, his father’s death had left him and his mother with quite a bit of money, and this was the house his father grew up in, so they decided to keep it, besides, it had all Mick’s memories of his father in it.
It was two story, beautiful victorian style house, With Mick’s room upstairs and his mothers down below.
His mother was a beautiful woman, she had the softest, blonde hair that curled wonderfully, sitting nicely on her shoulders. Today she chose to wear a light pink silk blouse with a black high waisted pencil skirt, it looked astounding on her, being thirty-six, she could easily be mistaken for twenty-six.
She would always be bringing her son new books, his room was almost a library, it had that many books, three of the four walls were covered in shelves, filled with books. Fiction, mainly, and his desk, it was cluttered with paper, parts of stories never finished, random thoughts that came into his head, if he wasn’t reading a book, he was typing away on that thing. He did not have a television or anything like that, but on his window sill he had a small brown radio, which he loved to listen to into the night as he fell asleep, just listening to the people’s voices, and the slow songs taking him into his dreams.