(Title Pending)

(this is just the beginning im aiming for 3000 words and will update it as I complete more of the story, any criticism or general feedback will be much appreciated and I will try and return the favour as permitted)

Getting up was always hard, he could already feel that fair too familiar weight pushing him back down into the comfort of his mattress. He laid still eyes closed, he considered giving up, it’d be easy, just lying here, nobody would come looking for him. But he couldn’t face the boredom, couldn’t face the waiting. Rolling off the bed he stumbled over to the wardrobe. He pulled out a shirt with a tiny lawn mower printed over the left breast before grabbing his jeans, he always felt better in his work uniform, it gave him a sense of purpose. As he moved into the bathroom his peripheral caught himself in the mirror, “Jesus, it was a rough night” he murmured caressing the drooping bags under his bloodshot eyes.

He slips effortlessly out the door into the waiting uplifting gaze of the warming sun that had just begun to seep through the early morning mist. The lingering silence broken by the raspy squawks emitting from the garden pond, glancing down he spotted the culprits a couple of Bufo bufo, or common toads, had made their way into his garden stifling the early morning peace. He stepped around them, careful not to disturb their conversation, eyes scanning the pond he noted the absence of egg strings, unfortunate he thought, although still in early spring there was plenty of time.

Suddenly struck by the remaining breaths of the morning wind he zipped up his fleece and headed out onto the street. He turns right and then right again. Noting his watch, 8.53, he pauses for a second, clicks a few buttons and sets his alarm for 10 hours. Looking up he examines a distant figure ambling towards him. Its lazy movement’s, arms swinging in pendulum motions, a familiar sight. It will be easier and quicker to cross over the fields he thinks turning of the road and ambling over a creaky fence.

He drags his hands through the Maidengrass arching in the breeze; fresh dew littering their elegant plumes spreads over his fingertips and palms, encouraging the nibble of the cold. Strolling casually as there’s not much work at Mrs Patterson’s, usually, just weed control and trimming back the rebellious ferns, maybe a slight watering here and there, no rush. It wasn’t a long walk though; following the brook, only a quarter of a mile, curving gently it was almost a straight shot.
On arrival the sun had begun to spread, almost dispersing the rest of the clouds; it was shaping into a clear and beautiful day. Swiping the handle down, the gate opens as he enters into the garden, he always found it curious they never used locks, but it had always been a safe neighbourhood and thus probably unnecessary. The warmer and dryer the day the more the plants release their sweet aura, almost as if he was encountering them for the first time and yet they always seemed to arouse his fondest memories. It was one of the main these reason he became a gardener, along with the sense of accomplishment and escapism, most days it would make up for the dodgy knees and mild pay. Taking out a pair of rusty keys he made his way towards the back of the garden.

It was always so much more convenient when his clientele had collected their own tools. Most of them always liked the idea of keeping a garden but found the work either too strenuous or time consuming, anyway it suited him. His first job was trimming the grass, Mrs Patterson had kept a manual hand push mower, she always said it was vintage, he always imagined she’d bought it after seeing one of them old suburban life magazines and fancied herself living that lifestyle. Either way he just enjoyed the satisfying snipping noise.

It was nearly midday before he’s finished; the sun had multiplied throughout the day bearing down upon his now pinkish skin. He’d taken longer than unusual, the weeds had begun to grow through and it was always better to deal with them early, before any seeds were put down. It wasn’t a hard job when you knew what you doing, sever the hand and then remove the roots. They are a bugger though he admitted; anything left over or missed seems to just grow back with a vengeance. By the time he’d finished he’d developed a soft pant, maybe it was the heat he thought to himself or maybe he was just getting old. He felt much older, could feel it in his joints and despite the heat the tips of his fingers still felt cold.

Meandering over to the bench he unpacked his lunch, there wasn’t much anymore. He had to make do with last night’s tomato and pasta recipe stuffed in a Tupperware box. It wasn’t great, to compensate he provided a hailstorm of pepper yet it only marginally improved the taste. Thump, something hit the gate to his right behind the shed; he startled nearly dropping the box all over himself. He stood up, cautiously peering his head around the corner of the shed, careful not to get to close. A cat sat nonchalant liking its paw. This was why he was never a cat person. “Bloody bastard, nearly died” he said to the cat, the cat just stared right back at him. Then it fled scarpering off, thumping as it clambers over the next obstacle.

Important: If you want to write a 3000 word story, you'll need 3000 words' worth of ideas. Here, you've got four long paragraphs loaded with modifiers and descriptions, but all that happens is someone waking up, getting dressed, and walking to work. In short, two serious problems: Way too much writing and way too little story buried under it.

The most important thing is to hook the reader right away, within a sentence or two. Then you need to keep him hooked. So dig out your story from all the writing, and just tell it. Use modifiers and descriptions as needed, not as word count.