A simple English BoyEdit
The story of Tristan Carter, an Engish demigod
The flourescent lights from the alarm clock shone, and the monotone beeping started. Bleary in my thoughts, and still grgoged by sleep, I thought to myself; "It's a new day, a new dawn for me."
Despite it being a Sunday, James Carter was getting dressed to leave for work. Here he was, In central London, living in an apartment with his only son, on his way to a Protest against destroying a park in the town square. Being an environmentlaist as tough work, but luckily his son agreed with his beliefs, so he wouldn't worry much.
He scrambled out of his room, tie still unknotted, into the kitchen. He was running late and he still hadn't eaten breakf- And there he was, his own son - Tristan Carter. Slim build, wavy black hair, intense brown eyes; James' pride and joy. Similar to himself in looks, bet as zealous and similar to his mother in ideology.
"Eat it before it gets cold, dad." He didn't even need to look at him to realize he was there.
"Thanks, son. So what are you doing today?" He took a bite of the pancake.
"Probabbly going out with some friends. You better leave, it's late."
James nodded and then briefly left.
The door shut, and all was silent.
Tristan looked at the petite french door, where his father had just left, and then cleared up the mess. He looked around for a few moments and then picked a light coat from the closet and left the apartment.
The cloggy morning fog hung over the urban cityscape of north London. As Tristan walked past the dark, unkown alleys, he stoped at one dingy corner. His best friend, Dunstan Thorne, lived in the tiniest, dirtiest corner of London. He was sixteen, one year older than Tristan, and he lived alone. Both his parents worked in the Houses of Parliament, and when there was a terrorist attack a year ago, they were both killed.
Dunstan had messy black hair and blue eyes, the colour of the sea. He was tricky, fast and not to mess with.