I want to thank Ziva D'Arcy from Coach O's class at North Stafford High School for writing this post. I may have come up with the idea, but Ziva, a future author, wrote the short story, and I think she did quite well.
I looked through my window to the west as the sun cast shadows behind North Stafford High School. The dark areas usually only scare little kids, but most little kids can’t claim to be burned by the dark. I can though. My long withheld phobia of the gloom all began when I was ten. My parents always told me there was no such thing as monsters, but they were wrong. When the moon arose, a creaking sound always heralded the coming of HIM… That despicable being with hands of burnt charcoal and eyes of bloody crimson stared me down from the corner of my room, hiding in the shadows until the sun awoke. Sleeping at night was impossible because of that thing.
But tonight was different. I waited for him to appear out of the shadows and show himself. I rested in my bed and waited anxiously with fool’s courage for him to emerge. His eyes that stared me down from sundown to sun up finally appeared. I gracefully walked to the closed lavender curtains gracing my windows. Each step I took caused him to step toward me. As I grabbed the curtains, he forcefully pulled at my upper arm, a small ray of light peering in through the windows. In the dim light, I made out his coarse black hands. Smoke trickled out of his hand resting on my upper arm.
I yanked hard to get away, but he grabbed me tighter. Heat burned my arm. I screamed and used the other hand to rip those curtains open.
The individual desperately covered his eyes from the light, letting my arm go, and revealed himself. He was a kid about my age with charcoal skin and crimson eyes, but he also had a devil’s tail and horns. The smoke that came from his hand consumed his dark body. In a matter of moments and many wails of pain, his body disintegrated to dust, leaving behind a black hoodie, a black choker necklace, and a pair of stone washed distressed jeans. I picked up the hoodie and held it close. Even though he scared me, I never meant to hurt him. He was there all the time for me, and when I was sad, he looked sad, too.
A brisk nighttime breeze filled the air, and I slipped on the hoodie. I'm still haunted by the shadows, the burn from that mischievous sprite is still on my upper arm, but I'm not afraid. I am stronger now, more than ever, to face the shadows like all the other children before me.
To see other author's take on the subject "Shadows", please visit The Writers Collection.
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