Clide, Come On: A Narrative Fiction

“Clide, come on. You’re going to be late! GET UP!” screeched the woman of the house, my mom Sandra. I’m taking my time as usual, dragging my feet off my cosy bed as my numb arms reach for my drawer. Our family isn’t very rich, so I don’t have a wide range of clothes to pick from. I wear a black top and jeans, the usual. My mom says that black makes my eyes standout since they’re ever green. I quickly brush my hair even though they always look messy regardless of the amount of times I take showers. “Clide, don’t make me come up there!” “It’s the first day! You must make a good impression!” “Jeez Mom, I’m coming!” I shout as I slide down the stair handles. Although mom always told me to not do it, I have a habit of not listening to her. I quickly
wolf down my food and get my bike.