Supercalifragilisticexpiali-guilty?

Part 1 The Prosecutor

Hi there - thanks for your interest in my work.

I actually wrote this piece as a part of an HSC Major Work for Extension 2 English (A Year 12 course in Australia) and am looking forward to getting feedback on it as although it was marked as a part of my HSC - I (like everyone else) never got feedback for it. So I really want to know if you, my readers, like it or not.

I've uploaded the pdf (which contains original formatting and pictures) of it at the 'external link button' paired with this story if you wish to read it how it was originally presented (altogether). Also, as an author, I was able to create a reflection statement in which I get to explain and analyse my own story - this will be posted in the final part of this story. I have a feeling transferring it to here will throw out the formatting a bit - please see the pdf.

Thanks again and keen to get your feedback! (Literally - I want to know if you like it!)

-Desterman

Part I The Prosecution

You’re late.

The clock sings out into the London courtyard as you race up the marble stairs. As rain strikes your face, you realise you have left your umbrella in the park, so the chalk which stains your trousers is slowly wiped away by the falling drops. Frantically your fingers fumble around in your pocket. Phew. The matches are dry and business can carry on after the hearing.

Stepping through the marble lobby, you see that the doors are still open.

The case is yet to begin.

The air becomes increasingly oppressive as the body heat of those gathered clouds the courtroom with a smell of sweat-stained powders. Looking around, the deeply stained wood surrounding you creates a dank, murky atmosphere of suspicion.

Striding down the centre aisle, you ignore the following looks of those already crowded into the room as they attempt to glare your inexcusable presence away from their high society lives. Sliding onto a pew-like chair, you finally settle in the third row from the front on the Defendant’s side of the room. The moment your body slides to a halt, an undeniable hush fills the air.

From where you sit, you have a clear view of the Bench and witness boxes and are able to see the Jury beginning to slowly shamble their way into their reserved seats facing the Bench. As usual they consist of the assorted bunch of hoi-polloi the Court manages to drag up from every corner of society; frills, fans and all with each one sticking their nose into the air as if they have some place else better to be. The moment they settle, the Prosecutors meander into the room; Mr and Mrs George Banks. They settle at the front of the courtroom on the Prosecutor’s side with a couple of hollow “Huff!”s.

Suddenly, you stand up with the rest of the room as you discover that trailing close behind the Banks is the strut of Judge Governgress in all his white wigged glory. Of course, as he seats himself, he notices that the Defendant’s chair is suspiciously empty and begins to grumble to the official men gathered in front of him.

Just as the aggressive murmur spreads throughout the room, you hear the doors to the courtroom fly open with a BANG! and snap your head along with the rest of the room to the entrance. A cacophony of noise breaks out among the rabble as everyone around you reacts to the abrupt entry of the accused.

Silhouetted by the light coming through the doors is an elegant woman dressed in a rich red skirt with a blue overcoat and an auspicious black hat covered with poppies. You smile to yourself as she seems to float upon the wind down the central aisle, parrot headed umbrella and carpet bag in hand, to seat herself upon the Defendant’s chair. The glare of Judge Governgress, palpable in the majestic room, is ignored by the figure with a sniff and a small “Hmph!”