taking off or landing?

wrote this as a practice for my IGCSE descriptive writing

click. clack. click. clack. I glance at the time crawling painfully again. My worn-out eyes stare at nothing and everything at the same time, memorizing the elegant structure of the cosmopolitan café. Galloping from a slender bodied man reading last week’s newspaper to an exhausted mother attending her crying toddler. “How long till my flight takes off?”, I sigh as I try to think of anything but how I spent the past five months in downright solitude and desolation. The bright sunny weather beams at me like an old friend, as if to mock my wretched gloomy state. The desperate longing of home tugs at the bruised strings of my heart. The more I think of it, the louder the voice in my head grows. And it’s ever-growing for I can’t stop thinking about it ever since I got here. It has come out of its shell and taken the form of an ugly, vicious beast. “They don’t want you back. Do you really think they'll be happy seeing their disappointment of a child back in their haven?”, the persistent voice scorns me at every chance. And I’m afraid I’m starting to believe its repetitive lies. 

I have to

         make it 

    stop. 

The relentless chattering of people and the bustling atmosphere snaps me out of it. How many of them are away from the warmth of their homes, sent away at the dawn of responsibilities? I gaze out of the glass window, the world appearing diminished as workers carry their tasks routinely. Methodically. Tiredly. Perhaps, I should get something for my parents. What would they like? Were we ever close enough to know? It’s been six long days since I told them I’m returning, and they have made no effort of acknowledging it. My vision starts to blur and my hands tremble involuntarily, everything seeming like one huge blob of light. I breathe in and out till the head-splitting drumming in my ears stop and my pulse slows down to normal. I wish I wasn’t like this; a sad, pathetic, lonesome girl with an emotional barrier. My untouched coffee glares at me from my table, making me feel almost sorry for leaving it unattended as I got lost in thought. 

The pinging sound of a notification comes from my phone, unfamiliar and frightening. It’s from “mother”, the surprise evident on my face as I hurriedly reach for my cracked phone. “We are waiting for you, have a safe flight.” The barely contained tears now stream down my scarred cheeks. They slip and roll, seemingly unstoppable. Gasping for air, I exhale a breath of utter relief. My stomach unclenches and I genuinely smile for the first time in countless months. With the destructive voice in my head silent, I think to myself, “it’s finally time to go home.” 

Reviews

[Ken e Bujold]

A very impressive piece of writing B. For one so young your grasp of rhythm is quite remarkable. I found myself engrossed in the story. The few times I stumbled over a clunky phrase I found myself thinking, "hold on, don't dismiss this poem, she's still learning" and I expect that you are going to grow rather quickly into a damn fine poetess. Can't wait to read more

Ken e