Man In Black Monologue

“ ‘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’

I DISTANCE MYSELF RIGHT NOW FROM EVERY DEAD THING AND RELEASE THEM FROM MY LIFE, IN JESUS NAME I THANK-YOU LORD THAT I HAVE AN INHERITED LIFE THROUGH YOUR SACRIFICE AND FORGIVENESS FOR MY SINS THROUGH YOUR BLOOD, REVELATION THROUGH YOUR WORD, AND I HAVE BEEN EMPOWERED BY YOUR SPIRIT, I TAKE PRECIOUS TIME LORD TO FULLY GRASP AND CONSIDER WHAT MY RELATIONSHIP WITH YOU MEANS, HELP ME TO NEVER LOSE SIGHT OF THE FACT THAT I’VE DECIDED TO BE TAUGHT EACH DAY, MY ADVERSARY IS THE WORLD AND SATAN IS THE PRINCE OF THIS WORLD, THE WORLD AROUND ME IS NOT MY HOME, AND EACH DAY IT BECOMES MORE OF A REFLECTION OF SATAN WHO IS THE PRINCE OF THIS WORLD. I AM NOT ABLE TO YIELD TO SATAN’S DEVICES AND I UNDERSTAND THAT THIS WORLD IS DESIGNED FOR MY DESTRUCTION THE ALLUREMENT OF PLEASURE AND THE TEMPTATION THAT CROSS MY EYES ARE FOR THE PURPOSE OF ROBING ME OF EVERYTHING THAT I HAVE INHERITED THROUGH CHRIST, EVERY TRAP, EVERY LUST, AND THE PRIDE OF LIFE THAT IS OF THE WORLD ARE SET AGAINST ME ON ALL SIDES THE HOPE THAT I HAVE IS PATIENTLY WALKING ACCORDING TO YOUR WORD, AND STAYING FIRM TO THE COVENANT THAT I HAVE MADE WITH YOU, THE WORLD CANNOT STRIP MY AUTHORITY HOWEVER I CAN HAND IT OVER, I WILL NOT BE DECEIVED BY WHAT I SEE AND HEAR OR HOW I FEEL, IF IT IS NOT OF GOD THEN IT IS FOR MY DESTRUCTION ,HELP ME LORD TO SEE THE SPIRIT BEHIND THE TEMPTATION, THE WORD TELLS ME THAT SATAN CAME TO STEAL, KILL, AND

The man sat in the booth across from me studied me with old eyes. His wrinkles which formed when he used to smile so much are no longer quite as prominent. The man’s irises were currently an icy blue, resembling the seasonal weather among the small town. This I only knew because I’ve seen him once before. His eyes were almost like a crisp auburn- resembling what was known to him as “the falling of the children”

I vividly remember that chilly night in March as I walked out of Fifer, the building my father now calls home, for the first time. I had goosebumps, but they were not from the cold I felt hit my skin. Instead, they were from the sickness in my stomach. As I got in the car, I began to cry and had to stop myself from running back inside. My entire world had turned upside-down. How could I go home without my father? How could I leave him in a nursing home, a place where he was too young and mentally fit to be confined? I had to fight the feeling that he didn’t belong. I had to remind myself of why he chose to be there, and I hated it.

She like to fuck me, suck me, suck then fuck me I'm the ice cream man, she chunky monkey She like to fuck me, suck me, suck then fuck me I'm the ice cream man, she chunky monkey She like to twirly swirly, in my vanilla coupe

My father’s presence was the only thing that stopped me.... He was running at my side, out of breath, at the end of his strength, at his wit’s end. I had no right to let myself die. What would he do without me? I was his only support.”

It was a warm summer night after a great night at my church youth group. The cool breeze of the car air conditioning wiggled through my hair (personification) sending a small shiver down my spine. The car radio blasting as my friends and I were jamming out to our favorite music, and the sound of laughter as we all laughed about how crazy we were. We were louder than a train. (hyperbole) That night we all had decided to go to Perkins after youth group so my friends and I were sitting in our car waiting for everyone else to get there. (participial phrase) Since we were early, we waited there for a while as more and more of the group started to arrive. My best friend told me she needed to talk to me about something so we stayed in the car for

The first stage of grief I experienced while coming to terms with Stan’s condition was depression. Having received no sympathetic support from my family, I sat alone by Stan as he slept. Thoughts raced through my head, so much so that it was hard to think, so instead I began to cry. As I cried the fog in my head slowly lifted, and the only thing I could think about was how I was not ready for him to leave, and I couldn’t fathom how to continue without him. The cliche phrase ‘he’s in a better place now’ kept surfacing in my mind, and no matter how great my will I could not bring myself to believe it. I felt so helpless sitting there next to him knowing he was in pain and there was nothing I could do about it. I left his side only when I could no longer keep consciousness, and somehow deep within my heart I knew he wouldn’t make it through the night.

I can hear him now as he moves about above me and at such a late hour; loud bangs and low groans sometimes accompany his movements. If I was not so fearful of him, I would march to his chambers and damn the consequences. Alas, though I am not brave nor reckless. I am but a man plagued with doubt, insecurities and dare I say again, fear.

Finally, as he abruptly snapped out of his daze, he gazing at me with his deep brown eyes and sighed, "The doctors admitted my dad to Hospice today." Once those disheartening words left his mouth, his face became distraught, his eyes turned dark and droopy, his nose became stuffy, and his lips tensed tightly. Hunching over his long legs, tears began pouring out of his saddened eyes onto his freshly-ironed clothes. My heart crumbled as Grant Oubre, my consoler and companion, was crying beside me. I did not know how to comfort him much less myself; I was in complete and utter shock. As he pulled himself together, he glanced at me once again with his sagging eyes and melancholic expression as he said, "Hospice is where they make you comfortable

The year is 1329, 124 year before the end of the medieval ages ended and 18 years before the BLACK PLAGUE pandemic. Throughout those years strange occurrences happened with 7 beautiful mahogany chairs. These chairs enticed and nearly caused the death of five innocent bystanders of a mysterious man whose name had not been discovered for 564 year till a missing manuscript that has survived for all those years was discovered. These chairs were enchanted by demonic wizard named Guy (Gui). One of those bystanders was my great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great grandfather. His name was Jacques, he was a boulanger (Baker). This chair was begging for my great great great great

The brain-dead seldom seem like they’re dead. The rise and fall of their chests is so convincing, the ventilator seems like an ornament rather than the single source of oxygen that keeps their hearts beating. Their skin is warm to the touch, and condensation clings to the inside of the catheter from the fresh streams of body-temperature urine. Despite how peaceful they look, their bodies are undergoing progressive autolysis, utter and massive self-destruction. Without the helm of consciousness, my father and all of the patients in his section of the intensive care unit seemed adrift in a tiny boat on a wild, infinite sea – yet unconcerned about finding their way back to

I speak to you now not as Sis Black, Dt. Black but only as Marquita Black, the woman. I have recently been re-evaluating some things in my life and I felt compelled to share my thoughts, feelings and concerns to you all. Since the commencement of this new year I have been faced with great adversity and trials for no reason that I can think of. Since then I have been growing more and more aware of why and what may be going on and I am deeply troubled by it. For whatever the reason my character has been maliciously attacked, I have been lied on and lied too, slandered and belittled by people in which I thought were and considered sisters, brothers, friends and PHAmily. It saddens me that I have been brought to this place in my life. But I made

Last December, I came home from practice to find my mother on the floor of the living room, hardly breathing. I dropped to her side, begging her to tell me what was wrong, and she whispered that she was having a heart attack. Upon hearing that, my actions became erratic; I was hyper-aware of my heart, of time, of the phone I could not keep still in my shaking hands as I called for help. After waiting in painful apprehension, two paramedics would walk in, put my mother on a stretcher, and carry her out. I would give them her prescription medicine and wrote down the name of the hospital she would be going to. Then, they would take her away, and I would be alone in a house of utter silence. Something about the silence allowed me to ruminate over

Everything black, I don't want black I want everything black, I ain't need black Some white some black , I ain't mean black I want everything black Six in the mornin', fire in the street Burn, baby burn, that's all I wanna see