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The tees swayed as I looked towards the night sky, so calm yet so mysterious. My imagination then kicked into overdrive as I wondered what was really in the moonlight and its surroundings. Owls hooted into my thoughts as I saw the treetops reaching out towards the darkness.

Was there another species of life out there that we didn't know about? Was there really a man on the moon? There were so many questions I wanted to ask this made up character! I would ask him what kinds of food he ate, like cheese? I always wondered whether the moon was really made of cheese...but come on I said to myself, the moon would never be made of cheese, and there was no man I could talk to about my theories, to prove all those stuck up scientists wrong.

That's what I hated when I came to school and learnt science, no matter what I believed in, my teachers would never believe me, they said that their facts were always right. But I mean it's not as if they never daydreamed in their teenage lives.

At school I only had a couple of friends, but they were mostly girls, there was Beth, who was so creative. When her fingers gripped onto her pencil to create her own Manga characters, it was like magic with every wave of her hand on the lined paper. Months ago when I first saw her draw like that, I was amazed at it, there was a tugging inside of me that wanted to learn it all. But I was more of a writing person, always having my nose kept in a notebook writing whatever came into my head, and when I had gathered up enough ideas, I would write stories from them.

Tonight was just a quiet night, I was sat under two orange trees that were situated in my back garden, the aged grass fading from green to yellow as some blades had transformed all together. The garden was never seen to; my parents were always too busy. On the other hand my house was quite posh, it wasn't a mansion, just once of those expensive four bedroomed houses which looked the same as all the others down my street.

Scratching, my pen went as it erupted ink silently, forming into the words I was writing. I was getting sick of all the short stories I was writing, when I had looked back at them, they sounded so childish that I just stuffed them all into the bin. When the past Christmas happened I was given a new computer for a present so I didn't have to waste paper with notebooks. My mother kept complaining that she could spend her money on better things for me, but yet again I ignored her.

This time I had just turned fourteen I had wished when I had blew the fire away from the candles, I wished I was a world renowned author. It was partly the reason why I was writing, to show that I had changed into a fully grown teenager.