A Short Story : A Story?

The sun was high in the sky, gleaming down on us. The air was breezy, but not cold. The day was ordinary, or so it seemed. But what was out of place? That would be my brother, the only person who could possibly get himself into such a situation, with his impossible ability to almost die, but just miss the mark. As he sat there on the ground with his back to us, legs sprawled out in front of him, we didn’t even realize that there was anything wrong. Hold on a second. Let’s rewind this just a little.

Mrs.Chipley and Sally are at the front door soaking wet the moon was so close I felt like I could touch it. We knocked on the door someone was opening the door.

Now she has a new room. This new room, which I have never seen, is not in my house, but I can clearly picture it. The lonely room is accompanied by a single window, a bed, and a dresser. The window does not fill the room with the natural light from outside, but fills the room with overwhelming darkness, a reminder of the outside world. Cream-colored sheets cover the bed, and suffocate the slender mattress. The bed frame is made of frail metal poles that do not seem capable of holding up a sleeping person. The metal poles of the frame are a dull silver. The poles used to be shinier, but were dulled by the chill and darkness of the room. The dresser is small with not much in it. The walls are painted white, but the paint is chipping off, which only reveals the white wall beneath it. The floor boards, a jaded-colored brown, are especially worn-out at the door from the many people that have traveled over them before. But, these floorboards do not creak like the ones at home, they are sturdier, much sturdier. There is no groaning radiator, the only groan in the room is the hopeless one let out by the springs of the thin mattress when pressure is placed on it. At home, the sturdy, wooden frame of Julia’s bed is stronger than the frail, dull metal poles, and the only chipping of paint on the walls is the chips of the neutral gray paint where posters and pictures once hung on her wall,

Slumping down on the bed, Madeline closed her eyes. If she was honest with herself, she felt afraid of getting too close to anyone. The memory of the raw aloneness she had felt after her parents had died made her heart ache like it was a fresh loss. She knew it wasn’t their fault that they couldn’t be there for her anymore, but sometimes she still felt like she had been abandoned—left alone in a harsh world.

His feet sunk deep into the fresh snow as he picked his way down the sidewalk, hood up, watching the crystal flakes drift past and fall onto a silent street. It was dark enough for his vision to be blocked, 5:30 at night. Malaki was out without parental permission, but he didn’t care. He was sixteen, he could make his own decisions. He was out “studying” with a few friends, if studying means partying that is. His parents should’ve been in bed when he got home but just in case Maliki would sneak in through his window. He crawled in his window, the room pitch black. He went to turn his light out but his mom had beat him there. She flicked his lights on and crossed her arms. Her husband shook his head.

All of James' life he thought that he was just a simple man and that he would die, perfectly ordinary, in his small village. For 18 years he had lived life as it came to him, growing up in Thornwood. His life was peaceful and dull. Every day since he was young he gathered edibles and alchemy ingredients from the forest, to be sold at a small price. It was an easy job that he was good enough at, but for a long time, he had held a secret dream, to leave this place. If only he had more money, more power, he could do whatever he wanted.

We were eating dinner when I asked how we were supposed to afford a three week trip to New Hampshire. We weren’t exactly well off, and winter was by far the most expensive time of year.

For spring break, Kristina wanted to go home and visit her widowed mother and younger brother for her twenty-first birthday. Her father, Harry, died of cancer, the same day of her high school graduation. While Kristina read her valedictorian speech aloud the the crowd, her mother and brother were in the hospital. While her grandparents came to support her and her achievements, she still felt discontent with the circumstances. “I’ll be home tomorrow,” she told her brother, Joe, over the phone. “Don’t tell mom, I want it to be a secret.”

The girls peered through the window watching the worn SUV crunch down the gravel driveway. Their family has gone into town for the day, but the girls decided to stay at the cabin.

75 miles per hour. 80...85. Grave pressed on the gas. 100 miles per hour. They had to drive him into a corner. They had to keep him contained. But where?.... Grave watched the car in front of him take a left. He spoke into his radio,

Flying through nighttime, I raced with my fellow ghost friend Laura on the abandoned roads.

Hetty brought a tortoise the day after her daughter died. Her only daughter, as it turned out. Her only daughter and her only tortoise, as it had also turned out. That was almost twenty years ago. The tortoise, Bertram, was, all these years later, still going strong. Still ambling around the house like an old man with dementia, bumping into furniture, getting lodged beneath furniture and nibbling said furniture in case it turned out to be as edible (or more edible) than it appeared. Sometimes, often in fact, he would creep up behind Hetty while she was doing the washing up or making breakfast, lunch or dinner and she was now in the habit, had been for approximately nineteen and a half years, of checking where she was putting her feet before moving away from the sink, the cooker or the kitchen surface, or anywhere else she had been standing still for longer than a couple of minutes, so as to prevent herself from feeling Bertram’s hard carapace beneath her foot, or worse, hearing the soft crunch of that carapace being crushed beneath her shoe.

A few days passed and I woke up and ran to dad's house and knocked on the door Carl answered the door "Yeah?" "Where's Dad?" I asked. "Up stairs." He said. I walked in "Dad! We need to talk Now!" Rick came flying down the stairs "Love what is it?" he asked. "It's Negan We have to do something about him I swear to god..." "Love He is just trying to get under your skin, and you're letting him." "No Dad you are because you're not strong enough to deal with him. You better do something about him before I do." I said as I stormed out of the house. "That girl is just like her mother..." I yelled back "I heard that Rick!" I walked up the road to the gate to my shift I climbed up and told Gabriel that he could go if he would like to. He nodded and climbed down and walked down the street to the church. I spent hours on watch with nothing happening, then my mind started to wander to Negan. 'God he's such a Cocky, arrogant, egotistical, self important, self absorbed, erratic, son of a bitch, but goddamn is he a good looking man. He's straightforward, outgoing, persistent, practical, and witty. but hot...' I was snapped out of my thoughts when I heard the rumble of trucks, It was Negan and the saviors. I turned and yelled "The saviors are coming." I saw Dad come out of the house, and I climbed down the guard tower and opened the gate pulled out a machete and killed any walker that got too close to getting in which weren't that many two or three the trucks stopped in front of the gate

A humming engine roars through the brisk morning air. Two men dressed in grey suits drive in a white car, their dress matching the dull sky. The driver has light brown hair, slicked straight back. His partner in the passenger seat sports dark hair and dark brown eyes, his short hair parted to one side.

It was the smell of smoke that was the reason I awoke on that dreadful night.The smoke was not from that of a candle nor of a fire, but rather the heavy pungent smoke from a cigarette.The unmistakable scent sent shivers racing up my spine and memories seeping into my brain.In the 25 years, I have lived only one individual I had encountered smoked strawberry cigarettes.I sat silently and pleaded that I was still dreaming, that the scent was conjured up by my imagination.And when I finally did sit up in bed I let out a blood-curdling scream.Standing in the doorway of the room watching me intently was my father.