The Death Of Death - Original Writing

Darkness enveloped me, and everything in sight. I could barely feel my body, but I could tell I was sitting. I heard someone talking. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I knew it wasn’t English. Something was ripped off my head, and I figured it out that it was a burlap sack. Bright lights stung my eyes and I had to squint to make out that there was an ancient looking camera filming my every move. I turned my head and saw a blurry version of one of the gunmen from my first nightmare. The classic black ski mask that you would see from a cartoon concealed his identity. I felt my mouth move in reply to whatever the gunman said, although I didn’t know what he said, or what I was saying for that matter. The gunman closest to me raised his Glock 42 and struck me across the face, and I tasted blood flood into my mouth, and spit out a glob of saliva and sticky blood. I didn’t care where the blood fell because I wanted to show as much disrespect as possible. He pointed his Glock at me, and I noticed that his aim was flawless. I could see the golden bullet lodged in the chamber. The gunman spoke and his words were muffled because of his mask, but I understood what he said.

The novel “Chronicle of a Death Foretold” by Garcia Marquez recounts the story where Santiago Nasar was accused of taking the virginity of Angela Vicario and therefore killed. The society depicted in the novel is one where appearances are important to the townsmen regardless of the cost of it. Using symbolism, Garcia Marquez exposes the superficial nature of the town and their flaws.

Roughly, one-hundred five people die per minute or in other words, 55.3 million people die per year. Death is never a comfortable conversation to have with others but death is common especially among the elderly population. Atul Gawande in Being Mortal talks about how death takes many people by surprise and the descriptions of aging and dying. All the while living better through the understanding of death. The author is trying to express that even those in the medical field struggle with death and not ensuring the well-being of the patients that are coming in. He emphasis the idea of the elderly feeling “comfortable” in the state and location they are. Those who are growing of age never truly feel comfortable because they never know what

My heart is pounding rapidly within the suffocating confines of my ribcage, my hand is slick with sweat as I feverishly clutch at my knife with an all-consuming intensity. They were less than a few meters away, I inhaled a deep, shaky breath and then a deafening silence tore through my surrounding, and next followed the

Before we reach the climax of the story, Poe describes to us this bizarre clock which causes “nervousness and folly”(Poe) among the guests. Anticipating this clock’s sound each hour gave people great discomfort and they prefered to not think about it. This is symbolism for the constatntly ticking away time in people’s lives and why it makes people uneasy to think about like in this quote, “the giddiest grew pale”(Poe). This clock provides great rising action before we reach the climax of death because the reader understands how a life is passing.

I flashback to walking out of my room, wiping my tired little eyes, and walking into the kitchen to see my Dad sitting down reading the paper and my Mom cooking all three of us breakfast. My Dad finished and put on his jacket and started heading out, while my Mom gave me my lunch box and I started to walk to the bus. Everything comes back to reality. I walk out the door, hoping to see the bus, but of course, it’s not there. I start to head out and down the street in the fog I see a bunch of people running out of a building, and hear screaming and gunshots ring out into the open streets. People falling to the ground and stained the snow with their bright red blood. I start to jog down the street, pull my rifle over and take it off of safety. And keep heading down the street. Thugs empty the building yelling slurs and other hate filled words at the people running. And the bleeding people on the ground. I’m behind a car, crouched down. I stand up, filled with anger and rage. “Put your guns down, and your hands up, NOW!” They just slowly turn around laughing, “Oh no…” I whispered to myself. They raise up their guns and start to shoot everywhere, a bullet hits me in my right shoulder, I get kneel down and

I raced toward the window , behind me I could hear the leader yelling, “I'm fine you fools, She getting away,” I was five feet away, now three, now two. Then crash. I fell hard scraping my chin on the wooden floor. Looking back I saw a young guard holding onto my ankle, my expression must've been sour because his face turned frightful, feeling no pity, I brought my heel down hard onto his face. I felt the bones give way under my foot and scrambled to my feet. The guards were almost upon me, I leaped ontot the window and there I crouched. My head turned slightly toward the ranks of guards that had stopped two feet away, all knowing the inevitable outcome of this. My face was half in shadow and I gave them an impish grin. Only the leader moved. He lunged but nothing was there but a swirling mist. His hands grasped in the film of gray, as he stuck his head out the window. His face turned red and he bellowed, “I WILL GET YOU SMOKE”

It was almost midnight when he caught up to me. I knew it was time. I picked a spot next to the large cave I found under the brush. He was coming quickly and I heard the dogs with him. When he was within range I turned slightly and yelled in pure terror, or thats what he thought. Waiting for him to shoot I pretended to struggle and and scramble in the brush while he pulled out his pistol. I knew the way it worked, I had been in his dungeons listening to the gun shots for weeks. I knew he would shoot my arm first to stop me, then my legs, then one last shot in my heart to kill me. I waited for the first shot. It grazed my arm but that wasn 't good enough, I yelled as if it struck my heart, then fell into the pool as he fired off the last

Death itself is scary, unfamiliar, and sad, but I feel that the emotions associated with death and the resulting absence it leaves in people 's lives are the saddest parts, not the act of passing itself. For me, it has always been the realization that this person has vanished from my life forever and the emptiness, however small, that they leave behind, that brings true sadness and fear. Even the smallest of presences in life can seem unfathomably large once it 's gone.

Imagine: you and your twin sister have just been taken from your family and thrown in a train with no possessions but the clothes on your backs. The train is filled to the brim with bodies of terrified strangers, and you struggle to move an inch. You receive no food on the ride, which lasts nearly a week. People are getting sick and dying because of the poor conditions and bitter cold. A child next to you lies dead on the floor, crushed by the weight of others trying to move around. After the long, perilous journey, the two of you arrive at your destination with the trainload of others. The train doors open and your eyes struggle to adjust to the light. When they finally do, you see a man in a pressed military uniform

Slug knocked back his double bourbon and looked at his watch. Death would be here soon, and he needed one more drink. He threw another five at the dancer attacking the pole in front of him and thought about his bladder. It was urging him to take a piss. He needed to get up, but those tits were perfect. How could a man walk away from something like that? He couldn’t and that was ok. Death would understand. Girls like Miss Perfect Tits never paid any attention to guys like him. Why would they? Old Ricky the Slug wasn’t much to look at. But he was flush. He had hit it big at the poker tables over at the Continental and he meant to enjoy it. The Slug ignored his bladder and ordered another bourbon.

As my eyes skimmed over the words printed on the pages of the oddly intriguing book, I experienced a slight sting of realisation within the depths of my soul. A pitiless dark cold. I had always been under the impression would be like this. My life would come to a halt, but nevertheless my consciousness would subsist in the void. Though it was quite unusual that afterlife would look so similar to my office.

Roland Barthes is a French literary philosopher born in 1915. In one of his theories ‘Death of the author’ he argues that by “giving a text an author is to impose a limit on that text”. He claims that having knowledge of the author’s background and purpose for the text restricts the readers imaginative license to build their own interpretations, and that the author and text are completely unrelated. Barthes declares, "The death of the author is the birth of the reader."

Ever since I can remember when I was a child my mother has told me that our grandparents should be respected and valued no matter what age or state of mind they are in. And my own mother backed up her reason why my grandparents should be admired is because their old age. And as a child I would think about old age as gross and completely useless. However when I started to grow older myself, I started to notice why my own mother said what she said. During this time I view old age differently, when it comes to old age many people think those that are around the age of death are hopeless and should just give up in life.

It all started the way any story starts, there is a child born. This child tho isn’t what you’d call normal. He was able to take life away. You see, before now life stayed, there was no death, and pain wasn’t very common. At the young age of five he found out exactly what he could do. You see, he went to give his own mother a hug, but she fell down at his feet. She didn’t get up, didn’t move, and just lied there.No one had ever seen anything like this ever before so they burried his mom in the ground hoping to contain whatever had happened, becuse of that we now have funerals now. Deaths life was not easy because eventually he felt himself hurting if he did not take lives. He wouldn’t die, but the pain he felt was worse than being eaten