Death is Unpleasant, My Friend

Jumping back into the past, Gregory Orr tells the incident when he and a group of five hundred of men, women, teenagers, and old folks assemble in Jackson, Mississippi. In Jackson for a peaceful demonstration, Gregory Orr and the rest of the group were arrested and taken away “to the county fairgrounds” (128, 1). Where they was beaten by officers of the law, Orr stated, “I emerged into the outdoors and the bright sunlight and saw them-two lines of about fifteen highway patrolmen on either side. I was ordered to walk, not run, between them. Again I was beaten with nightsticks, but this time more thoroughly, as I was the only target” (129, 2). Once freed from his captors, Gregory Orr gets in his car to head back north, but on his way back he was pulled over by flashing lights. Thinking it was the police; Gregory Orr pulled over and was approached by two white men. One of the white men said, “Get out, you son of a bitch, or I’ll blow your head off” (133, 3). The two white men takes Gregory Orr’s wallet and tell him to follow them, Scared for his life, Gregory Orr did exactly what the two men told him to do. After following the two men, Gregory Orr is back in jail in Hayneville. “Already depressed and disoriented by the ten days in jail in Jackson, I was even more frightened in Hayneville,” (136, 1) stated by Gregory Orr.

“ ‘Who are you?’ ‘I am Death.’ ‘I have long walked at your side.’ ‘That I know’ ‘Are you ready?’ ‘My body is, not myself. Wait a moment’

6. “Even while he was speaking to O’Brien, when the meaning of the words had sunk in, a chilly shuddering feeling had taken possession of his body. He had the sensation of stepping into the dampness of a grave.”

The crazy bastard's teeth marks punctured the skin on her wrist and the blood slowly oozed out of the fresh bite marks.. She took her kerchief off her neck and wrapped it around her wrists and walked back to the vehicle to check Caesars car for another clip to load in the gun. She felt around in his jacket and discovered a clip. She loaded her weapon and turned about at the rustle in the wind. Her eyes searched the bushes and trees nearby before returning to the spot where the crazed punk attacked her. She took in a quick breath. He was

“Another day, another mystery,” announced the policeman. He threw the paper in his hand at me, as if it were a frisbee. The ink on the wrinkled paper gave all the needed information. “Scene of Crime: The Frederick Mansion, VICTIM: Jack Frederick, SUSPECTS: Commander Patrisce, Robert Young, and David Ray, CASE: Murder.” Instantly, I spat out my Earl-Grey Tea in bewilderment. Jack Frederick, the billionaire and entrepreneur, dead? In a flash, I went to my car and rushed to the scene.

My shoelaces whipped at the backs of my ankles, urging me forward. Rain-drenched, I ran. I had felt the venom of desperation before, but never of this caliber -this was its purest form. It tasted of whiskey. I 'd never been fond of whiskey. The branches of the fir trees scraped against my cheeks and I forced myself to feel each individual needle. I deserved as much. His voice laughed “Come find me” amongst the trees, echoing throughout the forest. It was a wet winter, as wet as one would think a winter could be with Washington 's climate. I slipped on the moss coated roots and sliced my right cheek on a jagged rock. By midnight, it would all be over.

The sun hovered majestically over the edge of the horizon, its rays shimmering a last hurrah before it slowly dipped below the distant California skyline and vanished from sight. Tom sat alone in the Cadillac, his eyes unseeing, his body immobile, his mind locked within the trauma of his recent breakdown. He had fully intended to shoot Holland, to put a bullet straight between his eyes and end the vile man’s reign of terror forever. It had seemed the perfect solution at the time. But on reflection, sitting in solitude as the shadows of the approaching night shielded him from what was occurring within the walls of Holland’s home, Tom realized he had teetered close to the brink of insanity. For a split second, he had lost all rationality, and

I took a deep breath and swallowed back down my stomach which seemed to have made its way up to my throat. “Sir, there are lots of reasons why the death of Ms. Williams would not be suicide.” Investigator Christensen slowly stood up from his chair and started circling the room. He looked like a vulture, and I was the prey. “At 9:08 am October 16th 2016, 221B Baker street, a woman is found dead in her bedroom. She is lying on her bed, eyes open, a bullet in her head, and a pistol in her hand. Tell me Sherlock Holmes, is that not suicide?” He slams both of his big hands down on the table making the cups rattle and screams at me, “Is that not suicide? She clearly killed herself, Sherlock, you saw the body, you saw the evidence. And yet you question me.” My head is pounding. I throw the chair i’m sitting in behind me and scream, “MURDER!” Everyone is silent and all eyes land on me. “You’re right investigator Christensen”, I say. Now it is my turn to

It is 7:30 on Valentine's Day and Jucoy, a eighteen year old black teenager, is on his way to the store. He has a list of ingredients and is excited about the amazing chocolate cake that he is going to make his girlfriend. In his rear view mirror he spots a pair of red and blue flashing lights, followed by the wail of a siren. He pulls over right away, but is wondering why he's getting pulled over. He hears a voice shouting “GET OUT OF THE CAR WITH YOUR HANDS UP!” Frightened, Jucoy doesn't do what he's told right away. He eventually gets out of the car and doesn't have his hands up. The officer suddenly panics, and Jucoy is shot 5 times in the chest. Later the officer is tried and found not guilty for murdering an 18 year old. Although this

My stepfather.” Bedhead raised an eyebrow herself. “Yes, your stepfather. That was it.” He turned his attention to the left of him, towards the prosecution’s table. “Would the prosecution please give his opening statement?” A man rose, courting a suit of brown. He looked eager, though quite old. “Yes, your honor. I’d be glad to.” Turning his attention towards the woman and holding up a piece of paper, he began, “The accused, Ms. What’s-her-face, is charged with murder in the first degree of her stepfather Blahblahblah. The weapon, currently being analyzed by our police department, was a silenced miniature uzi. It had a barrel of about five inches sticking out from the gun itself. Within three shots of firing said weapon, Mr. So’n’so was killed immediately. Several bullet holes were found inside the body during our autopsy report.” The man took a small breather; the woman looked at him flatly, blowing a bit of her bright hair out of her eyes. He continued, “Upon further questioning, Ms. What’s-her-face is revealed to have a rather long and abusive history with this man, prompting her motive for murder-” At once, the woman flared and she turned towards the prosecution, “You’re lying! It-it wasn’t like that at all! Why would anyone-” she turned back to the judge, “why would anyone just outright kill their own stepfather?! It doesn’t make any

Around noon the sheriff’s partner, Mike came in with a slender envelope in his hand. He walked it over to my desk and, he declared “good luck on this one”, discombobulated I open the envelope. It had one piece of paper, barely written on it, but a name and last seen receipts. Acknowledging Mike, “what is this?”, he looked down at his shoes “it the sheriff, he’s dead”. Shrugging my head, shocked, “ how? When did this happen?”, all kinds of questions ran through my mind on what would've happened, and why it would happen to the sheriff. Mike setting the case folder on my desk “that's why I need you to do this case, so we will all know”. Looking over to my partner, she was sitting at her desk, looking through files. “So when do we need to get on the case?”, as I rose from my seat. “Oh no, you and Jessica are not doing this case together, you have a new partner”, as Mike stepped in front of

It was a typical morning in court. The Court Clerk went through the normal protocol and said, “The court will now hear the case of Lincoln Montclair.” This was a murder case that had been committed two days prior.

After the old man’s death, the narrator checked the old man’s pulsation and there was none. The beating of the heart growing louder and louder was not the old man’s but his own. It was his anxiety of killing the old man that caused his own heart to beat louder and louder. Then after the murder he calmly disposed of the body and he heard no noise until the police officers knocked on his door. The officers searched the premises then began a conversation with the narrator.

"Why should I go to my grave with all those lies: That I am your sister-in-law, married to your half brother, a man I never met. And my birthdate is wrong. You made me one year younger. Now when I die, my long life is cut short one year early."

On a rainy day in California, a young billionaire, Charles Bolton was driving down in his brand new BMW. When he received a text message, he looked down on his phone and replied and next thing, boom he crashes into an oncoming car. The oncoming car flips, Charles panics with his hands grasping his head from the blow of the airbags. Blood flows out of the flipped Charles could hear the sound of Ambulances and police rushing to the scene in which they pronounced two people a mother and father dead on scene. Charles’s face was lifeless as he stood up, and got into the police car.