Shatter

Thanks to the good feedback I received from The Swallow and The Sun, I'm trying to write a full length story (which has nothing to do with the characters from the previous story.) Please help me by giving me hints and tips! Please comment or vote if you think it's good enough. Halfway through chapter 2. Enough feedback and I will make sure it's uploaded soon! Enjoy! :D

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One

The big, bad crow glared down with its doll-like eyes and pickaxe sharp beak. It cocked its head from side to side, as if the world appeared better at an angle. It ruffled its feathers and then left them shinning in the sun. The contrast seem almost paradoxical – a being so menacing, so lifeless, a seemingly cold prodigal to life, against a sky so blue, it seemed to glisten. The crow raised its head into the sky and gave an almighty caw.

“Bloody birds” Annie muttered under her breath, as she calmed her nerves. The jeering laughter of her classmates didn’t help either.

“Oooh, Annie, watch out for the crow!” Jenna cried.

“Yeah, you could borrow a pair of knickers from lost property, as yours are halfway down your legs!” Delia laughed.

“Come on guys. I’m just tired.” Annie laughed along, trying to shut them up. She ran to catch them up, satchel bumping against her hip. Her hair caught in the unsuspecting wind and a slash of blond disturbed the blue sky. She skidded in between Jenna and Delia, giggling like only girls can do.

“I can’t believe you got scared of a bird.” Delia said, her curls jiggling. “It’s not like it can hurt you.”

“Well, some people have phobias of animals and birds you know.” Jenna commented. Annie looked towards her friend. The sun had caught her features beautifully, shadowing a smooth nose, overlooking a perfect pair of lips. Her pale blond hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, with not a hair out of place. Her eyes were steel grey, and in the morning light, appeared as ice. Jenna’s height and frame gave her an air over those she met. Annie knew her friend was going to be a model one day, after winning a scholarship to some top university. She was just one of those people.

“I’m pretty sure I would have known if I had a phobia.” Annie said, casting a sideways look at Jenna. “Come on, let’s just go.” Linking arms with both of her friends, she smiled as she led them on.

The Florence School for Girls stood, as it always had, overlooking the waves of the Celtic Sea. Surrounded by twenty acres of private land, it held many memories of girls long gone. First opened in 1889 as a finishing school, the age-old buildings now house 463 girls, from 10-18, mostly borders. It offers some of the best education in the South of England, and regularly supports charity projects in nearby St Ives. The grand windows and entrance halls gives the place a historical feel. More than one girl has alleged that the building is haunted and on a cold evening, the corridors can seem to yowl.

It was a cold morning when Mrs Herringdale checked her pocket watch for the second time. It was twenty-two minutes to nine exactly. Mrs Herringdale knew this, as she set her watch by the old grandfather clock in the entrance hall and that had been keeping Headmistresses’ watches in time for over a century. Her weathered face showed no emotion as she observed the second hand passing twelve. At twenty-one minutes to nine, the gong went off for morning registration. Mrs Herringdale placed her old pocket watch back into the pocket of her jacket and stared out the first floor window of her office. From here, she had a view over the courtyard and the gates to the school ground. She watched as girls, young and old, hurried to classrooms. She, as her predecessors before her, observed the childish manner of the first years, and the false pretences some of the older girls held. She had seen scrawny little things grow into mature women and was the last figure the leavers saw when their town cars picked them up for the very last time. Yes, she thought. That is what makes this school perfect. Being able to hand back women others had thought would always be girls. Allowing herself a rare smile, she congratulated herself on her achievements as Headmistress. She had been in charge of the institution for 23 years this June. Throughout that time, she had grown to love the worn buildings and they had grown to love her. Yes, she thought. It would be sad when she retired. But, she thought, I have more pressing issues to deal with, as she saw three girls running through the gates into the courtyard. Late again. Mrs Herringdale sighed to herself. It was that Ms Delia Mannard, a girl passed gratefully, it had seemed, from her town parents to the school several years ago, along with her two friends. Ms Jennifer Logan had always appeared as a puzzle to Mrs Herringdale. A girl graced with features not seen outside a fashion show seemed to spend all her time in books. Not that Mrs Herringdale was complaining. And in between them. Ms Anne Ellis. A local girl, who lived with her mother in St Ives. Slightly erratic, was how her form-mistress had described her mother. A historian, Mrs Herringdale struggled to recall. Well, that would explain a lot. However, she must note that Ms Annie Ellis was well regarded amongst her classmates and her teachers praised her often. Although her time keeping was something to be desired. Mrs Herringdale placed a slight scowl on her face and went to greet the late arrivals.