As ‘hard and sharp as a flint’

We created a terrifying character. As authors, we showed just how awful a character he is by:

  • The way others react to him
  • The setting where we find him
  • Reflecting his personality in the weather
  • The way he appears
  • His name

Can you guess which famous literary character he is based on?

Have you read the beginning of A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens?

How did these passages make you feel?

You can listen to A Christmas Carol by clicking here!

20 thoughts on “As ‘hard and sharp as a flint’

  • 24/02/2015 at 5:24 pm
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    BAH HUMBUG
    A candle flickered. A rumbling marching sound grew closer. A chill spread through the hearts of the dejected inhabitants of the cold, dark, draughty, fallen-down houses that lined the dirty alleyway. The cruel wind whistled through the cracked windows. Everyone seemed to stop, holding their breaths; all that could be heard was a drum like noise, the wind, and the faint patter of snow on stone. The candle flickered, once, again; then went out.
    Quite suddenly, an elegantly engraved, ebony cane appeared around the edge of the corner, just visible through the palpable, musty, brown air. Following it came two large, heavy boots; a black and billowing cloak; two deep black, beetle-like eyes; a long, crooked nose; and a very tall, wide-brimmed velveteen top hat. The owner of these distinguished features seemed far from friendly, in fact, he seemed to emit an unfathomable, icy breeze, as if attempting to freeze everything in sight, attempting to hold and control every living thing on the dirty, dingy, dark London streets upon which he stalked.
    The man, on entering the alleyway, did not even glance around, or break his stride; he continued to walk purposefully towards the opening at the other end of the street. He splashed through frozen puddles, unearthing the slushy water beneath- which rained down upon unlucky street urchins, who happened to be in the way of his pounding boots. People scattered in his wake, breaking their unusual stillness to dive out of the way. He did not even give them a backward glance.
    Then, quite as suddenly as he had appeared, he rounded the next corner and disappeared. Everything and everybody seemed to exhale a deep breath. The candle-which had now rekindled-shone in the waning light of the snowy evening.
    Now, I am sure that you are wondering who on earth that formidable loan-shark could be, and, as he is the main character in this story, I am inclined to tell you. His name is Mr Grendel Fline, a bad piece of work if ever you saw one. Fline terrorised the people of London, claiming gold and silver in return for cold, dark, draughty, fallen-down houses. Some have been heard to describe him as “the worst of the worst,” with whom I am apt to agree. Money lenders have never been described as pleasant, agreeable or generous, yet Fline was known to top them all with his evil ways. He seemed to loom ominously over the young and the poor, ruthlessly indifferent, wreaking havoc, chaos and ruin wherever he went. Living alone in a dwelling the size of a palace, he still craved the money and power to which he had enslaved himself.

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  • 24/02/2015 at 5:26 pm
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    ICSTIN STAPLE
    This is about the story of a man named Icstin Staple. Although this isolated silhouette had a heart for money, he did not have a heart for the suffering urchins that lay on the ruthless, urban street with tuberculosis hanging about their worthless bodies. The children sat on doorsteps, pleading for the tiniest crumb (for hunger and pain was growing within them), but all he muttered under his breath was, “Humbug”. As he stamped along the streets, his cane of shame stabbed into the icy, cold floor; it whipped in the air with a breeze that froze his empathy and nipped his chin.
    Do not bother asking for favours, or the shadow of evil will sting your mind and will loom over your very house and will remain there for eternity. His heart was cruel and cracked, with darkness pouring out (though he did care for wealth), and his eyes gave an icy glare over London`s suffering people.
    He marched towards some carol singers who were raising money for charity. But he just stopped and stared angrily muttering, “Humbug”.
    “He has no soul!” yelled one of the carol singers, “I bet his heart is a solid granite stone!”
    “He acts as if he has not got a single penny in his life!” chided a child, but this time trying to catch up with Staple and pick his pockets for money.
    Everyone was whispering and crying about him and followed him to his front door. As he climbed his last step that led to his vast, dark, gloomy house (four steps), he froze and slowly turned around to the colossal crowd. They then, with fear, turned and scattered away to every corner to get out of his traumatizing sight. He suddenly and viciously shouted, “HUMBUG!” .
    Breathing a sigh of anger, he turned around and stomped inside. Miserably, he scaled up his stairs and walked into his bedroom. Now you would think it would be a dark soul with emptiness all around him, but instead it had a meticulous display of portraits with only himself in them. He had thick, golden cabinets for his most prized possessions (which he had stolen). Well, he would not say stolen, but rather ‘confiscated’ from his workers and those prized possessions were… you know… MONEY! He then stumbled into his bed (for he was old and quite clumsy), got undressed into his nightgown, closed his dusty, velvet bed curtains and drifted off to sleep.
    A few hours later he was suddenly interrupted from his dream by a strange clanking noise, like chains being dragged across a grave, and a phantom crept through the casement.

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  • 24/02/2015 at 5:27 pm
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    He entered the scene. The shadowy silhouette strode around the corner; an ominous gong reverberated off the murky urban alleyways. His sinister cane rattled on the pebbled pavement like the hooves of a horse in a funeral procession; the icy raindrops played their music; the bitter wind did its dance. Colourless eyes passed indifferently over a dead cat that lay sprawled beside him. The man’s ruthless gait passed the creature, giving a new sickness to the thick brown air that surrounded the village.
    Sharp as a flint, the self-contained humbug shot a cold glance at a small street child, who seemed to be looking his way. “What are you looking at?” The innocent little boy quickly turned his flushed face away and started walking up the dingy pavement at a surprising speed.
    The sun hung in the sky like a pale coin lost by someone high up in the clouds. This ‘someone in the clouds’ obviously did not feel very happy that day, they seemed to be crying through the mist directly onto the cursed village were the shrewd Mr Flint stood.
    They say that if you ask him for a favour, his nastiness increases terrifyingly. “His icy glare silences the crowds,” this is what they would say, when he was shut up in his wood carving workshop.
    Every step he took towards his smart black door was another echo that bounced harshly off the tattered houses that lay on either side of the dirty road. The rain whispered through the grey clouds; the wind whistled through the shattered windows.

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  • 24/02/2015 at 5:33 pm
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    The Miser of London Town

    Mr Scrintlebuck entered the usually warm alleyway, a mighty gong vibrating in the distance. “C…C…Can you feel that u…unearthly chill?” enquired Thomas, trying to shelter from the sudden gust of wind “It…it must be him…” muttered James, not daring to speak any louder for the fear of being heard by the ‘human darkness’ they called Mr Scrintlebuck. He was said to have been friendly once, but, in some people’s opinions, had years of neglect and misery to blame for the frosting of his already-toughening heart and the ability to freeze many a jolly soul near him, but many people just accepted the fact that he was despicable. When the lone loanshark left the area, the busy atmosphere returned and the market began its work once again.
    As Mr Grim marched past the horses in their stables, they neighed unusually loudly, alerting everyone who, in a matter of seconds, had crept away into a pitch-black alleyway of some sort or another. But, try as hard as he could, none of them could escape the power of the freezing wind. Fortunately for the civilians, the dark silhouette had soon exited the street and people immediately started flowing back in.
    Mr Skinflint, just a matter of minutes later, arrived at the town square. Ding-a-ling went the alarm bell and suddenly the whole town square was filled with burning campfires. Then, as quick as a flash, everyone was inside the town hall, trying to warm themselves up with steaming mugs of hot cocoa. The drill here was well rehearsed; they would try to warm up the square and then go inside the town hall and try to warm themselves up too, but their hopes were not the least high. Finally, as the wealthy moneylender left the scene, life returned to normal- at least for the fire brigade.
    Homeless children pleaded with him, but Mr Greed, most hated and cursed, just splashed them and uttered one miserly word, “Humbug.” The children I am talking about are only those of the country, who had only just come to London in search of more money. All of the street urchins from London avoided him, most had fallen victim to the sky-high prices for his damp and droughty houses, so they knew not to go near him (the others though, were told by their peers). Unfortunately, those oblivious to all of this, lived to deeply regret ever meeting him at all…

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  • 24/02/2015 at 5:37 pm
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    The deafening sound of a gong vibrating announced the arrival of the menacing Mr Ironbone – London’s most loathed man. His perfectly polished boots, which were as dark as his soul, slammed down into puddles, spraying the helpless street urchins with an icy, grubby liquid. His piercing, un-blinking eyes caused many innocent people to slither into their run-down homes in fear of being his next victim.
    Although he had the city in his tight-fisted grasp, he was a miser who craved wealth and power. He was thoughtless, and tricked people into buying ramshackle, neglected homes for sky-high prices. He went to uncanny extremes to prove himself the worst of the worst. What kind of man wanted to be hated?
    Mr Ironbone continued to stride briskly down the alleyway never once stopping. As he walked, frost spread like the plague up the surrounding mistreated windows and weaved through the gaps in the cobblestones. He came to a town square where a few humble choristers were singing harmonious songs. He shot them a hard stare and their voices slowed to an awkward halt. The shoppers in the market withered back into the shadows and plastered themselves to the flaky walls, holding their breath.
    “He’s so nasty! Some of the things he does are inhumane!” whimpered a child, “Recently my father was forced to do extra work for him and wasn’t paid at all! And we almost lost our house to that…that…penny-pincher!”
    Thunder roared in the threatening, murky-grey sky above, but nothing could compare to Mr Ironbone’s fierce rages and steely looks – even the ravenous mice scuttled into the darkness with a petrified squeak, knowing that food would not be coming their way.
    Soon, Mr Ironbone could see his house at the end of the narrow passageway. Every curtain had been drawn, stopping any unwanted outsiders from peeking in. His door was blacker than coal and was alarmingly large with a doorbell that made a shrill sound when you pressed it. He marched up to it and fumbled in his pockets for his keys. A curious, whispering group clustered behind him. He swivelled round suddenly, fixing them with a stony glare. Immediately, the group scattered, leaving the street empty. Only a pattering of retreating feet could be heard, fading away into the distance. Mr Ironbone ripped open the door and stepped inside, slamming it shut afterwards and locking it securely.
    The moment he disappeared, the street was filled again with joyful children and adults, who sighed with immense relief. The nasty loan-shark was richer than a king but was feared by the town – to say that he was horrible would be an understatement! Nobody was safe when he was patrolling the street looking for even the tiniest smidgen of money; he was a solitary, cold-hearted beast of a man who despised children and adults alike. There would be no end to his reign of terror until he was dead, for everybody knew that he would never ever change his ways.

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  • 24/02/2015 at 5:41 pm
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    A GRIMM SITUATION
    This is the story of how no-one ever forget the name Mr Ebenezer Grimm. He always made the townsfolk of London feel – unwanted and scared. From that day on, everyone hated him; let me tell you how it all began.
    As the dark silhouette walked briskly through the abandoned alleyway, Mr Grimm – the worst of the worst – chilled the already ice-cold souls of the humble street urchins. The small crumbs of bread were soon scattered away by the hungry chipmunks craving more food; others were swept away by the waving wind – the arch enemy of the animals trying to find food. The angelic-looking birds flew rapidly across the floor to scoop up the last of the remaining crumbs, leaving not a crust for the hungry people.
    “Say, isn’t it getting c…c…colder out here?” asked a frightened, little child, as he shivered constantly.
    “I hear yah!” replied another, as she sat on a park bench (decorated in icicles) covered in a cosy, soft blanket, trying to get warm.
    The frosty floor stung painfully every time Grimm took a miserable step on his mission. His cane pounded swiftly onto the rock-hard floor, bang, bang, bang! When the undisputed master of the underhanded deed strolled into the miraculously busy market, there was silence; figuratively paralysed, the townsfolk stared as the joyous, jubilant carol singers sang a beautiful song to cheer up the frozen town.
    “Why must his soul be bare? He’s probably just an unappreciated man!” whimpered the helpless child, as he ran swiftly into his dark, draughty house. Mr Grimm (who suddenly turned round to give an ominous glare) opened his dry lips in the forming of a word,
    “Humbug!” he exclaimed. Suddenly, every living person and animal nervously ran back to their daily, ordinary lives. The normally benevolent townsfolk felt a feeling of despair; the children felt agitated and full of disbelief in Grimm.
    The thing about old Grimm was that he loved seeing poor little children suffer and went to terrible extremes to prove he was heartless.
    A child – a sweet, happy child – played contently, oblivious to what was going to happen to him. The most hated and cursed person in the whole of the town stood up to his name by the devastating thing that he did, as the little child looked carelessly into the small puddle next to him, the shadowy figure loomed over the now-petrified boy. He raised his big, black boot and with an impenetrable amount of force, he shoved his foot down into the damp, wet puddle. The puddle spluttered everywhere but mainly into the little boy’s now soggy face.
    “Oh Mr Grimm, why are you so wicked and horrible all the time?” inquired the soaked little boy in a soft tone.
    “Because I am boy, and I don’t intend on changing!” shouted Grimm, as he shot off down the lane, burning the ground even more than before, on his way into his unadorned, unlit office.

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  • 24/02/2015 at 5:45 pm
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    Mr. Skinflint

    A gong sounded, like a splash of murky water upon a jagged rock. A tall man in a towering top hat stepped out into the distorting haze of smoke; there was silence. A street urchin reversed into a gloomy nook, even though he knew the eventuality would be getting his throat cut. But anything would be better than encountering Mr Scrooge Skinflint, the solitary loan-shark. He wore a jet-black cloak that draped around his broad shoulders and his patent boots gleamed against the faces of the weak and innocent. Sir Skinflint thoroughly enjoyed patronising people by making them feel unwanted and made even the biggest of people feel small.
    A young girl accidently dropped her shilling, and Scrooge, instead of helping the poor child, knocked it over, sending it toppling down into the gutter. Without looking back, Sir Skinflint produced a devilish grin from his dark and mysterious face. “Sir! Sir! Please sir, you knocked my shilli-“ her voice trailed off. He was gone.
    Mr Skinflint moved on, feet marching, like the clattering of hooves on a funeral procession. His wooden cane scratched in the glistening frost, creating a dark silhouette that loomed over all that he passed. The ruddy brown air puffed around the ominous shadow of the dark- black bat that Scrooge truly was inside, and everyone around him got crushed by the looming darkness that he created.
    As he came toward his destination, he stopped in his tracks as a choir of meek choristers sang cheerfully, seemingly full of joy. “Baa, humbug,” muttered Skinflint under his breath. He carried on, despite the abominable fact that people were actually joyous, and kicked over the receptacle of spare change for good measure. As he marched on, he sneered at the sight of shivering babes, at their older siblings suffering from whooping cough and at their parents looking ominously pallid.
    The people’s fear of Sir Skinflint grew every day, like a thorn in bare flesh grows in pain. Despite this fact though, the people knew something about Skinflint that they could use against him at any time.

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  • 24/02/2015 at 5:49 pm
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    Mr Stone

    “Oh, i’nt he such a miser that Elbeneer Stone!” moaned Mrs Mackleroy to the market man.
    “He’ll be ‘ere soon.” replied the man.
    “‘Ow do you know?” she shouted, but the market man didn’t say a word; his lips looked like they were permanently glued together.
    “Come on tell me!” she exclaimed, just as Mr Stone walked round the corner. He was wearing a pitch-black cloak and a matching top hat which was a rather big sign of wealth. His boots were leather and polished, his trousers just perfect, his cane in rhythm with the sounds of the busy market. He glared at Mrs Mackleroy complaining about his antics – something he truly despised with all his might – pushed her into a heap of revolting, rotten food waste and carried on walking.

    Mr Stone strode past the houses (which all belonged to him) on the High Street and all the people living in these Elbeneer houses rushed to close and lock all the windows – then hide away from this ghastly figure that went by the full name of Elbeneer Marlis Stone.

    Mr.M.Stone strode through the market, his head held high, making eye contact with no one. He stormed past the clothes stall and suddenly the clothes were swept off the table and the stall shut. He sighed and walked on. This happened at every stall he walked past – the fish shop, the meat shop, the wool shop, it was never ending.

    He decided to walk down the Main Street to stay away from the shops but this decision did not make anything any better. A horse drawn carriage trotted past him. As soon as the horses had a glimpse of Mr Stone they galloped off, fast as lightning travelling in the wind. The people inside the carriage came out to ‘talk’ to the person who made their two dappled grey horses run off but once they saw it was the supercilious, sinister figure named Mr Elbeneer Stone, they pushed the carriage on to the pavement and ran down the streets, searching desperately for their precious horses.

    Elbeneer said a quick curse towards the horses and their owners then simply carried on walking.

    Right around the corner, the Christmas choir sang their hearts out until Mr Stone walked by and then they stopped and froze, paralysed with fear and hatred. When he had passed, the choir suddenly decided that they had done enough singing for the day.

    Finally, Mr Elbeneer Marlis Stone arrived at his loan-shark business and sat down with a huff. “Baahumbug,” he muttered and then got on with his solitary day of work. Mr Stone was a money lender or, as many of the people in London called this job, the worst of the worst. He would give people money then, if they did not pay up, evict them from their homes and leave them to make their own money. This was a cruel job, perfect for Mr Stone.

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  • 24/02/2015 at 6:04 pm
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    Mr. Miser
    As a sinister figure swept down the shivering alley – named Mr Miser (the most mortifying man) everyone felt a chilling breeze. The deafening sound announced his petrifying arrival. He trudged through the shadowy alley, making everyone feel uncomfortable, smacking his cane on the ice cold frost with an expression on his face like he was going to pulverize somebody. He was patronizing and arrogant towards everyone. He made aggressive and supercilious decisions which were not making anybody satisfied.
    He was as sharp as a flint, self-contained, he did not reveal anything, like an oyster. The street children felt a shiver to the bone and saw that he was the worst of the worst. He was the sourest of them all, looking like a black silhouette disguised as a sly spy.
    He carried on, stamping, while the humble street children froze. They were unfortunate; he did not feel a wet, runny tear go down his dry crusty cheek. They were annoyed from his attitude towards them.
    Suddenly, he turned around and saw four miserable street children. For the first time ever, he felt sympathy swim in his body; he changed his mind and went on (as I said, he was unstoppable), once he had started he was persistent to the finish.
    Everybody who knew Mr Miser did not find him ambiguous; they could quickly get a vivid image in their minds and not find it perplexing. It was impossible to find him generous or thoughtful; his nastiness only increased. Sometimes people thought that he was determined to be an isle of cruelty as well as viciousness.
    Nobody could look him straight in the eye; he would pull you into his menacing world of gruesome horror. He would isolate anyone who dared to stop him (making them feel trapped, in his cursed prison of trepidation, as well as neglected).
    Even a valiant army of men, agitated as they approached the petrifying man, were left quivering, paralysed in fear. He would never feel meaningfully sorrowful for anybody. As he walked through the market, a couple of street children (wearing ragged and scruffy cloths) asked him for money; he turned in the split of a second with a startling face making them scramble from his ominous rage. “Humbug!” Mr Miser mumbled under his breath.
    He carried on looking ferocious and brutal; he rushed along with a sign of power and wealth. He tried to look long–eared, whereas others saw him as heart–rending; making them knock–kneed. People always wondered why was he solitary and lonely, as he was alone most of the time; they still did not talk to the horrifying man, as they found him wretchedly repellent and revoltingly penetrating.

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  • 24/02/2015 at 6:10 pm
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    Mr Skinflint By Ashleigh
    Mr Skinflint marched down the snow covered cobble stones, people around him began to feel a shiver down their spines, like a ghost’s hand gliding down, making everything in its path cold and vulnerable and shrunk into the darkness. His black cane with a rim of the moon’s silver glow, suddenly came down onto the ground violently on the ground and the ice below began to break.
    The streets of London began to grow dark, like a furious black hole. Some thought he had good inside, but others thought he was just full of plain evil and indifferent to everybody else in the whole of London and that nothing would make him kind-hearted. He came to a starving street urchin… the urchin shifted slightly into the darkness for he knew never to ask Ebenezer Skinflint for anything. Since this loan-shark’s closest and most faithful partner (Mr Cane ) had passed away a few years ago, Mr Skinflint’s heart had begun to freeze bit by bit. Mr Skinflint‘s black velvet cloak obscured the view of the other side of the street; his top hat loomed over the citizens of London, making them feel small in this dark city where they lived…
    “Hurry! Lower your voices and hold your cups to your chest! He is coming!” whispered the kind-hearted choir master in alarm for her fellow choir members.
    Others began to whisper as well … “Some say his soul is frozen from him being so lonely.”
    He marched past, his eyes burning into every being’s soul. His heart was frozen solid and everybody knew. He had been the victim of fear and vulnerability, his sneer was so powerful it made people wince at the sight of him. Even though this man was now full of rage and fear and more things I could not describe at this moment in time, he once (long ago) was as kind as any mother or father would be to their children, but many people had forgotten about those days because he had changed so much.
    As he came out of one of his dark and draughty houses, a mother and her two children begged for another week before she would have to pay rent and this gave Mr Skinflint some satisfaction. There was one tiny part of his heart that was not frozen yet, that would have felt sorry for them, if the frozen parts of his heart had not taken over, ruling like a king on his servants. But Mr Skinflint went on and ignored her, giving her a letter for how much she was to pay him for rent. It seemed as if the wind had changed and his face had been frozen in a sneer.
    Children from dark doorways came slightly into the light to see him and sulked back .All Mr Skinflint had ever been was alone in his own dark, creaky cold home and as far as we know he will be alone there forever…

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  • 24/02/2015 at 6:17 pm
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    Mr Greed

    Bang. Bang. Bang. Mr Greed’s cane echoed through the streets.
    On a cold, chilly night the dark solitary loan-shark marched round the corner, everyone felt a chill. The cold hearted, indifferent, nasty, ruthless, cruel Mr. Greed stormed down the bear, murky street in his midnight black cloak and his tall dark hat. His dark silhouette haunting everyone’s nightmares.
    He looked at every miserable, sobbing with fear child with his bleak, bitter, icy cold face, and with one glare, they lurked into the shadows; he made children cry, he even made men cry. Everyone was scared of what he was going to do next, their cheeks flared up like ovens when he walked past, not knowing if he was going to send them to his jail or take them out of their houses. The fear was hurting them. His cane whipped the cobbles like a drum, digging it into the snow.
    “There he comes, Mr Greed the most hated and cursed, the worst of the worst!”
    “Shh… his nastiness will increase.”
    Mr Greed just look at them with his flint eyes. He whispered under his evil smelling breath, “Humbug!” and carried on walking down the dark, misty alleyway. He did not even have a heart for little children.
    “He must have a warm heart behind that cold flesh” said a little urchin boy, but as he said this Mr Greed walked past and splashed him ’SPLASH!’
    “No, his heart is as cold as stone.”
    He lifted the little boy and threw him into the rubbish, like all the other children that make him angry.
    “He’s like a flint that never gives fire.”
    “He’s sour.”
    Mr. Greed’s anger was increasing, as he heard them whispering behind him; he had an indignant face. His eyes were becoming more dart-like. He opened his door (his pitch black door) his house was grey and everything in it was muted, he walked in and slammed the door behind him, ‘BANG!’ The cold within him froze his warm blood and soul; his thin stick like lips were blue, his eyes red, his sharp pointy nose had been stiffened by the harsh bitter cold. He stabbed his cane into the wooden floor and went to sit by his un-lit fire.

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  • 24/02/2015 at 6:26 pm
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    Albert Flinter
    It started to get cold. The creaky floorboards started to freeze. Then it started to rain. The water pattered down on the broken, damaged roof. In our bedsit (where me, my mother and my brother lived) it became damp and sullen, like the feeling a witch is killing children for her dinner.
    “Rosemary,” my mother called, “Rosemary!” She came down the falling to bits staircase and saw me, “Ah, there you are. Go down to the market and get as much as you can with these,” she showed me three bronze coins, “Quickly! Before the market goods get wet and they have to close up the stalls!”
    I went to get my shawl and placed it on my shoulders. As I walked to the stalls, more rain fell (as if it was telling me to go back to my mother‘s arms and stay there forever).
    He wore a black velvet cloak with brass gold buttons. Underneath the mourning-like cloak, the murderer of happiness had a lifeless and colourless suit on.
    His top hat sort of said to people, ‘I am your king; bow to me or you shall face the consequences.’
    A lady with her baby, trembling, limped up to Flinter.
    “P-please my baby needs warmth. For one night-”
    SPLASH! The hated and cursed man, the rude beast had stepped into bitterly cold puddle and awaked the baby, who had been sleeping.
    Flinter was businessman who had terrorised people and had destroyed their homes. He owned my bedsit and some night you hear my mother talking in her sleep about how much we have to pay. My mother had to works two jobs (in a bakery and selling the flowers we grow on the window sill) and sometimes we still didn`t have enough money!
    I began to walk home, not bothered by my acquaintance. Who would like to be like Flinter? I mean, you would have lots of money and riches, but you would be so lonely.

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  • 24/02/2015 at 6:35 pm
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    It was a cold, bleak and freezing night, when round the corner of a dark alleyway came an empty-hearted man; he had a black silhouette and he was casting a black shadow behind him. He entered the city strolling down the damp street wearing a midnight-black cloak and holding a thin, stick cane. The people selling the vegetables felt a chill coming their way. He was self-contained and as solitary as an oyster. “There he is! The most hated, unwanted, cursed and sour man!” yelled a poor women. Mr Bitter (a ruthless, cruel, mean, black-hearted man) was walking agilely, when he stepped in a massive puddle splashing an innocent mouse. “He will never change!” screamed a little girl. He was indifferent to everyone; he brought misery to all. “He destroyed my life!” shouted an old lady. Mr Bitter carried his own low temperature everywhere he was. “My family has nowhere to live now because of him!” bellowed a boy. He would agitate people; he had no one to love and care.
    “There goes the murky loan-shark,” muttered a lady under her breath. As he was marching, the people around him were giving him an icy glare. Mr Bitter always had a dispute about everything; he always wanted everything his way. Mr Bitter did not want a loving family. He just wanted to be wealthy. The lone, vicious man (a wise money dealer), who was living in a city where everyone disliked him, liked watching people suffer. He was as sharp as a flint. Everyone was terrified of him. He was sorrowful every day. “His heart has frozen from years of being alone.” whispered a young man. When Mr Bitter entered the city, people always had an ominous feeling. “His nastiness will increase every single day,” muttered a man to his son. Mr Bitter was covetous, old sinner! No one forgave him after everything he had done.
    When Mr Bitter was putting his key into his lock, he turned around and stared at the crowd with his dangerous, wide, evil eyes. He was truly the dark master in the city. At once the people went back to doing their jobs as fast as they could; they could not bear having him in the city with them.. “Humbugs,” murmured Mr Bitter deeply. Then he slammed the door shut loud and hard, with all his might.

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  • 24/02/2015 at 6:40 pm
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    Mr Miser
    As the sinister figure (Mr Miser) walked past the tunnel, it sent shivers down people’s spines and chilled them to the bone; he was the most horrid and wicked. If he was a flavour of sweets he would be sour. He walked, and his cane beat a rhythm on the flint on the ground. People glared as if they had seen a demon right in front of them.
    He was the most hated and cursed; he did not even have an empathetic heart. Even the carol singers and vegetables knew what he was like. One of the carol singers whispered, “He must have a good side to him,” one replied, “Nahh he never smiles.” He never smiled so he made people’s hearts freeze inside. As his head turned the sharp corner, he became darker inside.
    He was so evil he made the other money lenders look good, oh really he did, he made them look good. Then he looked behind him and everyone bolted as he gave them the eyes, because they all knew what he was like…
    He was evil, he even practice being evil on his butler, for, as he was rich, he could afford one.

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  • 24/02/2015 at 6:47 pm
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    Mr Sneer (the solitary loan-shark) was marching through the dark misty alley way feeling he had London to its knees. He was very indifferent to the hungry urchins living on the unwanted streets which froze them to their bones. He was walking, tick, tack, tick, tack hammering his cane down on the battered concrete floor; his outrage spread with fear of pride. People say he is a humbug! Everyone knows when you ask him for money he will have this horrible look, you would know it will be your funeral and the worst of all – his ruthless anger will turn you to misery going back outside to the streets feeling useless. Another person asked, “Please sir I want some chicken.”
    He simply repeated, “Humbug.”
    Mr Sneer was an old miser who never cared about anyone. “Sir its Christmas and I want to spend some time with my children, please?” asked the worker that worked in his office. “ Well….yes I guess so but don’t make me fire you again for being late, alright!” supposed Mr Sneer, as he was writing in his book. Mr Sneer got up and went home, as he was walking he passed a dinner bar and everyone kept throwing fruits as he passed each shop. He got home feeling angry as he put this key in the lock, but then his old partner, who used to work with him, appeared at the keyhole. Mr Sneer fell in confusion thinking what he had done. He got up again and pushed his key into the lock and opened the door, feeling terrified of what could be inside.
    He went upstairs with a lamp, when he got to his room behind him was his old partner, “Hello Mr Sneer, it’s been long time…”

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  • 24/02/2015 at 6:50 pm
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    As a dark figure came marching down the misty street , he gave everyone a chill to the bone. The wind started to blow with fear and frosty ice; his cane started to make an unforgiving, flint rhythm on the cobbles. He marched, his sinister black cloak blew in the impending blizzard. “There must be a joyful man in there,” sung the optimistic choir.
    “Na,” interjected the old lady, to the group. While he never smiled, he froze other people’s happiness. As he walked passed a destitute family of mice, they muttered, “It is even worse for us.” He marched … marched … marched with his long brown cane, he marched his way through the icy street, with his heart stung with his anger, as he had felt since he was a boy left alone in the sorrow world.
    He was the richest of the richest, yet his anger took him to a world of greed. He was stronger than an oyster. He would not care or help the poor. Although he was the most hated and cursed, he still wanted more power under his control.
    People thought there is a good man in-side but he was evil in every part. No one would even touch him. No one in the world had ever been so alone. His good heart was bitten by evil.

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  • 24/02/2015 at 6:54 pm
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    Mr. Silhouette

    Everyone despised him, there was no doubt. The money-lending miser, Mr. Silhouette, walked through the bitterly cold alleyway, sending a shiver down everyone in the heart of Victorian London. Oh what pain he was, the worst of the worst people called him, ask him for a favour and his nastiness increased; no one had ever seen such a man. He wore a long black cloak that was wrapped round him, a charcoal- coloured big tall top hat, a cane the size of your legs – that was used for a right old beating- long black patent shoes (in those days if you had all of those things you would be considered one of the richest people in the world and for a fact he was ).
    As he walked by, the people they made way for him (for they knew their punishment would be severe). Every single person knew the only thing that kept Mr. Silhouette alive was his precious, gorgeous, lovely green money. The mayor of all the town shouted, “What a horrible man, I hear that he didn’t even give the orphanage one single penny but yet he spat on each and every one of them!” Mr. Outrage just loved to watch the suffering of others; he charged folk a fortune for his dark and drafty houses. “He must be so lonely, he must so sad, deep, deep down there must a sweet man inside-” “Yeah right, that solitary loan-shark will never change,” interrupted the pessimistic folk. Mr. Skinflint had finally reached his destination, but he felt something behind him, so he turned only to discover everyone had been following him. He fixed them a false eye and roared with all his might, “Humbug!” . They all fled, started to murmur to one another and carried on doing their daily tasks.

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  • 24/02/2015 at 6:57 pm
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    The Unknown Demon
    It was the Victorian era,
    When a demon stroke fear.
    Run, hide while you still can,
    As who would know, that the demon was a mortal man.
    The man of fear, ferocity and monstrosity was stamping his way on the grim, barren street. He was a being of terror and for gossip’s sake will remain unknown, but his very name sends spiky icicles down human’s spine and makes them shiver and quiver in the demon’s quake. Everyone agreed that he was a beast of fury and with the power to rule the world no one – but no one – wanted to stand in his way.
    Something was for sure about this feared creature, and that was that he was frozen all the way to the heart. He had a long, thick, grey beard that if you ever touched you would bleed, as the menacing whirlwind twirl was as sharp as a thorn. The devilish demon wore a black, leather coat to show off his wealth. His cane, which was black tapped loudly on the cold, flint floor (which if you had not noticed yet is the definition of his heart). As he exhaled into the chilly, frosty air, his clouds of breath fought off the chill itself. He was a lonesome, destructive soul with the power of London in his grasp; who wouldn’t be afraid of him? So I said at the beginning they all agreed that he was a monster, someone to be feared.
    As he swiftly and briskly moved his legs in a sophisticated walk, street orphans hid in his overwhelming presence; even the mighty fell at his feet and begged for his properties to live in. But all they were left behind with was a sprinkling of dust and water from his long dark cape. As he would walk away without feeling an ounce of emotion or empathy and would steadily step into the next barren street to spot more frightened souls without a house to live in. Some people believe that there is a friendly, kind, and loving side to everyone, however this deadly demon proves their theory wrong.
    So if you are one day going to muster all of your strength and go and fight this beast, make sure I’m nowhere to be seen. But, I advise you this one last time, never go near him – as that is something everyone knows.

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  • 09/12/2015 at 5:34 pm
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    The radiant sun smiled warmly on the streets of Victorian London. Down at the bakers shop, many ragged beggars only dreamt of sinking their filthy teeth into freshly baked bread. Their nostrils inhailed the warm, lovely scent of the food. Their mouths watered at the smell. All of a sudden, the gong of greed boomed. An obscure figure came storming down the street, the old hags scattered away. The shadow moved on, quickly pacing across the street; not making eye contact with anyone. After his arrival, an icy chill swarmed into the warm shop turning it into the North Pole. As this ghost stormed across, you could hear the men murmuring, “What a monster!” At this comment he turned around and shot them a corrupted glare that sent an icy chill down their backs.

    He moved past charity choirs and pushed costumers, waiting to buy their meat, aside to carry on his stampede. As he walked past orphans, hearing them cry as his boot stomped into a puddle, splashing the infants. He had no merriness as he continued his proud stride for the poor children waiting for a penny, the blacksmith cared to give a shilling yet a wealthy penny-pincher would not give a shilling. This loan shark had no heart – only a bit of stone. He had no love. 

    As he walked past flowers, the flowers lost colour. He was the devil on earth. His cold cane whipped the air. His glare aimed in front of him. His cape trailing behind him. Finally his eyes met his door, his dark, dark door. His cold hand reach for the knob. He twisted it. Before entering he turned round and shot a glare full of hatred at the few boys, as they scattered away. He had made boys run away at just his face.

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  • 15/12/2015 at 9:59 am
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    Mr Cruel
    As people huddled together, a loud rumbling noise grew. An icy chill spread through the street making people shiver. Everyone seemed to stop what they were doing except a little boy named Jack- the boy who always got into trouble- who whispered, “It’s that man again, Mr Cruel.” All the crowd fell silent; all that could be heard was a faint flicker of a candle and children slurping hot chocolate to keep warm.
    Suddenly, an ebony cane appeared from around the corner. After came a large figure wearing big black boots and a long top hat. He had a crooked nose and sharp beetle-like eyes. Then an unforgettable breeze began. “Isn’t it getting c…colder around here?” asked a man, who was sitting near a shop window selling shoes.
     “I think it’s ‘cos of that man, Mr Cruel,” shivered a little boy who had his hands cupped around a mug of hot chocolate. Then, quite quickly, the man turned his head and his black eyes met his. “What did you say?” bellowed the man wagging his long bony finger at the boy. The boy then stood to the spot, paralysed with fear. Mr Cruel picked up his cane and hit him with it. The boy fell down sobbing and staring at his hand which was bruised all over. Every day, Mr Cruel’s nastiness was getting worse. He was the Mr Heartless of the street and was the undisputed master of being cruel. Only one look at him would explain why.
    As the crowd silently waited, Mr Cruel headed to his black door (Number 13). Once he got there, his torturous little fingers fished into his coat pocket pulling out a jumble of rusty keys. He stuck one of them into the door and turned it. The door squeaked as it opened. Mr Cruel went in and turned his head and muttered, “Humbug.”

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