So I wrote this for my honors english class a month or so ago. The teacher said she enjoyed it very much and gave me a 95 (and she said herself that she grades papers harshly). Enjoy.
What to Do When Death Is Upon You
In a nameless city, where the sky touches the tallest skyscrapers, a beautiful full moon was rising from is monthly slumber. The grey light given off by this amazing structure filled the city with a sort of familiar feeling, as if a blanket were encasing it in everlasting warmth. But little does it know, tonight the night in which insanity, fear, and murder occurs within the city limits, on a deserted, dimly lit street known as West Wind Ave.
Out on this dark street lay a man known as Stan Fields. Stan was scrawny weighing in at a meager 120 pounds and a short height of 4’5”. For a second or two, he wondered why he was laying on concrete, instead of fighting some Smith over who could drink the most whiskey. He collected himself just as an eight foot giant barked, “And stay out!” and quickly shut the wrought iron door to the local pub. Stan gave his fair share of insults by giving the door some indecent hand gestures and drunkenly dragged himself towards the nearest lamppost.
Stan had always been one to get the crap beat out of him once it came to fighting. When he was younger, he had gotten into a fight with a girl no bigger than he was, and had suffered a terrible defeat. Once high school came around, his life only became worse. Like a coward, Stan always wanted the easy way out. Within his pocket contained a switchblade he carried with him at all times. The feeling of knowing that he could severely injure, or kill, somebody with a single stab exhilarated him. It made him sleep easier at night and he loved showing off to the ladies how brave he was for holding such a weapon. His life ambition was to be a scientist, but through many years of showing up to interviews drunk, and the use of vulgar language, the laboratories eventually gave up on him. He was married, but things had been going downhill since the beginning. Just that night, Stan had walked into his apartment, only to find that his and child had left and taken all of their belongings. The note didn’t clarify much either; it simply read “I’m finished with you,” in her handwriting.
Now here Stan was, incredibly drunk, standing at the base of a lamppost, puking his brains out. He glanced up, somewhat dizzy from looking down at his sick and glared at a black cat, idly watching him. “Stupid animal,” he said to himself and kicked a rock at it. The cat swiftly dodged it and disappeared into the nearest alleyway. Taking another swig of his beer, Stan set out into the night, unsure of where his final destination was and what would be awaiting him along the path.
“I really need to stop drinking,” he muttered to himself. Then he let out a giggle, which escalated into a deep laugh. He knew he couldn’t stop, even if he wanted to. Drinking was all he knew, and it helped him through his ‘rough years’ as he saw it. Giving up the bottle only meant that he would have to face reality the heard way, cold and sober. As Stan rounded the nearest corner, he heard a crash behind him. Quickly, he turned around and gave the street behind him a quickly once over and saw nothing out of the ordinary. “Probably that stupid cat,” he growled to an unknown listener. When Stan turned around to the street in front of him, he was greeted by a chilling sight.
Standing almost five feet away was a shrouded figure, standing by a lamppost, facing his direction. Its whole body was covered in some form of a black cloak, a silhouette against the bright orange canvas, shining down from above. It beckoned to him and Stan chuckled and yelled across to the figure, “Is it Halloween already?” and made his way to the sidewalk across the street from this eerie shape. Upon moving onto the new sidewalk, Stan saw rustling up ahead, and out of a dark alleyway, another dark figure appeared.
Stan did a double take and swiftly turned his head to the area the first figure had occupied; the sidewalk was completely deserted. At first, Stan began to wonder if somebody was messing with his head, or if he was about to be the victim of a brutal attack from a local gang. “Alright, it was cute the first time, but now I’m a little freaked out,” he thought to himself. The shadowed figure seemed to just stand there, beaming directly at him and beckoned to him once more.
Stan stepped off the curb and began to cross the street from this thing for a second time tonight. Out of the corner of his eye, Stan just caught the eerie figure crossing him. The attack came quick; the figure had cleared the short distance between it and Stan. It had pounced upon Stan, pinning down his legs as well as the pocket that held his switchblade.
“Be still,” said the chillingly deep voice. Stan struggled to throw the shadowed assailant off, but it was impervious to such physical force. “I have been watching you, Stan Fields” explained It, “I also know you haven’t been much of a saint lately, either”. With a great outburst of strength, Stan threw up one arm and gave the figure a right handed jab directly to its face, knocking its head so that it was tilted towards the sky. Stan felt as if he had conquered his foe, but soon realized there more in store for him.
Stan began to question his soberness when he realized that the punch he had just thrown had barely done much damage at all. As Its head began to lift back to its normal position, Stan realized that the hood had fallen off and landed on the street. To his surprise, the head that was mounted upon the dark cloak wasn’t human, but that of a skeleton.
Startled, Stan fell back and started crawling back up towards the street. Quickly, the skeletal body caught up with him and pinned him down once more. “I am known as Death, and I have come for your soul,” Death whispered. Stan felt around his pocket and gripped his switchblade. “If you do not change your ways, then your life will end as sharp as that blade in your pocket,” exclaimed Death. A little shaken by the face that this thing knew of his weapon, Stan pulled out the blade, closed his eyes, and a made a clear shot at the heathen’s face.
When he opened his eyes, Stan saw that he was poking holes into the air. There was no eerie figure or dark skeleton where it had been only moments ago. “I must have fallen asleep…and must have thought I was being attacked,” Stan told himself, “Just a horrible nightmare.” With that, Stan collected himself and laughed so hard that he was almost positive the cat could have heard him from many blocks away.
Suddenly, Stan saw the dark of a long rag hopping into the alleyway the monster had appeared from. “It was…r-real,” stuttered Stan. He glanced at his knife and knew what he had to do. Slowly, Stan crept along the wall of the building leading to the alley. He knew It was waiting for him, waiting for unsuspecting Stan to let his guard down long enough for to do him in. But Stan wasn’t going to let that happen. With a large gasp of fresh air, Stan turned the corner of the alleyway and began making swift jabs at anything that moved.
Six months later, Stan was facing death row for the murder of an innocent homeless girl. He had pleaded that he was innocent, and had made a whole story about how a monster wanted his soul. The cops had thought he had gone crazy and insisted that he be sent to the nearest penitentiary. But, when they tested his blood, 5.0 if it was alcohol. The detectives came to the conclusion that the homeless girl, with no food, money, or shelter, had tried to rob Stan Fields. Stan, in a drunken rage, had brutally stabbed her to death. The night before Stan was to be put to death (via electric chair), guards and cellmates had heard screaming coming from Stan’s cell. The next morning, Stan’s body was found in a pool of dark liquid with multiple stab wounds to his neck, chest, and stomach. Next to the body there was a metal coat hanger (which usually was used to hang coats in the visitor part of the prison) that had been bent into a long, sharp knife. The case was soon closed (shrugged off as a suicide before his inevitable Death).
Can I possibly get some feedback on it? I sure hope Flamethrowerqueen will read this, I haven't sent her some of my writing in quite some time.
