Mitel: A Short Story

<br>Every night at precisely midnight, the narrator, who remains nameless and sexless, but for the sake of this essay I will refer to as he, ventured into the old man's room without making a sound, to observe the very eye at which the sight of made his blood run cold. The old man did not suspect a thing. During the day the narrator continued to go about his daily routine, and even went so far as to ask the old man every morning if he

Olunde ( He moves for the first time since he heard his voice ,brings his

“What did you say?” I mutter to him because of how loud he is being.

“Did you hear that?” asked the short soldier, nervously fondling his rifle, “Sounded like footsteps.”

        “I need your help,” he growls, giving the person on the receiving end no time to speak up first.

Walter Mitty sat alone in the sun room of his home. The world outside was a dark rainy night. The rain beat off the ground and windows like a rhythm of a natural song.

Dr. Prentice has a very stiff and nervous expression on his face. There is sweat on the forehead of Dr. Prentice during the crucial moment of the telephonic conversation

A single candle light dimly shined within the windowless room that hauntingly brimmed pitch black. I couldn’t see my hands in front my face. Did I even have hands then? I wonder. “It’s so dark,” I said in a voice that was foreign to my tongue. I couldn’t identify myself within the grand shadow

“I’m here for the order,” Basil’s voice echoes. He clenches his jaw as the echoes reflect the tense anxiousness of his voice. No weakness. He can’t show any weakness while on the job. To supplement

The silence is broken when Mr. Rogers tries to lighten the mood with a scoff he smirks and bellows,

Now he hears two hushed voices with a hint veiled contempt in each muffled phrase, not contempt for eachother though. Maybe a little ill will from the big boss

Instead, she surprised him with the change the subject, and the question caught him off guard. Jeremiah pursed his lips and paused to unbutton his jacket and shrug out of it as he contemplated how to answer. He tossed it on the seat between them, and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt, displaying forearms that were much like his hands. Strong and sinewy, those of a working man.

Mortimer’s face paled and beads of sweat formed on his forehead. His eyes darted back and forth and pulling at the color of his white button up, he said, “Alright, I’ll come with ya, but I ain’t happy about it.”

I swallow hard, “Mark,” I say, straining to keep my voice even, “don’t you think…” My voice trails off, at a sudden noise coming from the front gate of the harbor.

The man growled to himself, before muttering and allowing his shoulders to drop. This made the