Hi everyone, I just wrote this because everyone was talking about pre-preparing stories. Im not that good at writing, or with english in general, so I was wondering if people would mind having a look at it for me? Its only around 700 words. Any feed back would be great 
It was 5:30 and already the sun had dipped behind the hill to the west, leaving the cold of winter and shadows in its wake. The boy trudged through the long grass and across the old train tracks that separated the boys home from the back road that ran into the towns industrial heart. His feet upon the back road the boy drew the hoods from the two jackets he wore over his head in a vein attempt to shield his face from the wind. Training started at six and he disliked being late, the boy thought to himself as he readjusted the duffle bag on his shoulders which held his gear; a mouth guard, a bottle of water, hand wraps and his boxing gloves.
The back road was long and narrow, barely wide enough for two cars to pass, and when they did the boy had to stop and shelter on the side of the road lest he be hit. The boy journeyed along the road, occupied by thoughts and memories of training, there was little else to entertain him, to one side of the road stretched fields of ugly yellow grass, dotted with the odd native gum tree, choked and decrepit looking in the thrall of winter. On the other side of the road, to the boys left, running parallel to the back road ran the old train tracks the boy had crossed to reach the back road. No, it was not a very visually appealing journey the boy thought to himself as he returned to his thoughts.
He thought of training, of kind old Frank the trainer, Francisco the Freak they use to call him, the first aboriginal boxer to represent Australia at the Olympics in Tokyo 1964. But those days are behind old Frank now.
The boy was temporarily shielded from the wind as he passed under the bridge which led out to the airport and the towns beyond. It was 5:45 and soon he would enter the industrial fringes of town and be all the more closer to the plumbing shed which served as the boxing gym, complete with heavy bags, a speed ball and a small ring from where Frank yelled advice and berated those who slacked off.
Dim lights up ahead and a car shoots past him, clinging to the centre of the road, buffeting the boy with cold air. The back road dips and the boy crosses a bridge, houses and tall pines starting to replace the empty fields on the side of the road. The icy wind has lessened now, although it is still felt, the boy turns his mind from it. He thinks of the whirr of skipping ropes and the slapping beat they makes as they smack against the ground, slipping under the skipper’s feet. He thinks of the stories Frank tells them whilst they skip, how he once fought a ghost, how he use to walk around the block on his knuckles to toughen his fists.
It is 5:55 and the boy has nearly reached the end of his journey. The houses and pines have been replaced by whare houses and auto-electricians, the winter sun has all but set and now the street lights dimly spark to life, creating shadows around the boy. The icy wind whistles eerily through the buildings as the back road gives way at an intersection to tumbling and twisting streets. It is these streets the boy navigates as cars twist past, intent on their own journey. Dogs howl and bark at the boy as he walks past the used car lots, surrounded by their fences topped with barbed wire that keeps people out and the dogs in.
The boy walks down an alley, hidden between a mechanics and a tile shop. The alley has no street lights, just the odd security light which flicks to life as he walks past. There is a light though, at the end of the alley, shining out of the open roller door of a plumbers. The thump of heavy bags being hit, the whir of skipping ropes and the voice of an old aboriginal boxing trainer reaches the boys ears. It is 6:00.
It was 5:30 and already the sun had dipped behind the hill to the west, leaving the cold of winter and shadows in its wake. The boy trudged through the long grass and across the old train tracks that separated the boys home from the back road that ran into the towns industrial heart. His feet upon the back road the boy drew the hoods from the two jackets he wore over his head in a vein attempt to shield his face from the wind. Training started at six and he disliked being late, the boy thought to himself as he readjusted the duffle bag on his shoulders which held his gear; a mouth guard, a bottle of water, hand wraps and his boxing gloves.
The back road was long and narrow, barely wide enough for two cars to pass, and when they did the boy had to stop and shelter on the side of the road lest he be hit. The boy journeyed along the road, occupied by thoughts and memories of training, there was little else to entertain him, to one side of the road stretched fields of ugly yellow grass, dotted with the odd native gum tree, choked and decrepit looking in the thrall of winter. On the other side of the road, to the boys left, running parallel to the back road ran the old train tracks the boy had crossed to reach the back road. No, it was not a very visually appealing journey the boy thought to himself as he returned to his thoughts.
He thought of training, of kind old Frank the trainer, Francisco the Freak they use to call him, the first aboriginal boxer to represent Australia at the Olympics in Tokyo 1964. But those days are behind old Frank now.
The boy was temporarily shielded from the wind as he passed under the bridge which led out to the airport and the towns beyond. It was 5:45 and soon he would enter the industrial fringes of town and be all the more closer to the plumbing shed which served as the boxing gym, complete with heavy bags, a speed ball and a small ring from where Frank yelled advice and berated those who slacked off.
Dim lights up ahead and a car shoots past him, clinging to the centre of the road, buffeting the boy with cold air. The back road dips and the boy crosses a bridge, houses and tall pines starting to replace the empty fields on the side of the road. The icy wind has lessened now, although it is still felt, the boy turns his mind from it. He thinks of the whirr of skipping ropes and the slapping beat they makes as they smack against the ground, slipping under the skipper’s feet. He thinks of the stories Frank tells them whilst they skip, how he once fought a ghost, how he use to walk around the block on his knuckles to toughen his fists.
It is 5:55 and the boy has nearly reached the end of his journey. The houses and pines have been replaced by whare houses and auto-electricians, the winter sun has all but set and now the street lights dimly spark to life, creating shadows around the boy. The icy wind whistles eerily through the buildings as the back road gives way at an intersection to tumbling and twisting streets. It is these streets the boy navigates as cars twist past, intent on their own journey. Dogs howl and bark at the boy as he walks past the used car lots, surrounded by their fences topped with barbed wire that keeps people out and the dogs in.
The boy walks down an alley, hidden between a mechanics and a tile shop. The alley has no street lights, just the odd security light which flicks to life as he walks past. There is a light though, at the end of the alley, shining out of the open roller door of a plumbers. The thump of heavy bags being hit, the whir of skipping ropes and the voice of an old aboriginal boxing trainer reaches the boys ears. It is 6:00.
