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The Storm.

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The Storm By Daniel Stickler It was a normal mid August afternoon, and as I plodded along the ordinary, yet somewhat apprehensive North Close, I knew something was wrong. My insides started to become tight, and my stomach rolled around and around, as if it was doing somersaults. I cautiously turned around. Nothing. My insides were getting tighter, and a sharp pain, as if someone had thrusted a blunt dagger into my side, started. I fell to the floor, almost knocked unconscious by the ever increasing pain. Salty tears rolled down my face, as I struggled and fought my way to my feet. Suddenly, the sharp stabbing pains had vanished. Nothing. Again, I turned around, this time not knowing what, if anything, was behind me. Again, nothing. I stared at the August sky, and soon realised that something wasn't right. Those clouds, those big black malicious looking clouds, growing larger and larger, spreading left and right, covering every millimetre of the cobalt blue sky. They were unlike normal clouds. They were a rich black colour, like the colour of soot, and seemed almost human-like. My stomach churned again, and the pain returned, this time, stronger and more painful than before. ...read more.


I stared at it, transfixed at the figure. It was a man, five and a half feet tall, and dressed in a black suit, with long, black trousers. In his right hand, he was firmly carrying a newspaper, and in his left, was a partly visible cigarette, the ash glowing a crimson red. I froze. What was he doing in my house? And why was he translucent? I stood up, and the man with the ghostly complexion smiled, and looked at my living room door, as if he was directing me to go in. As I walked past the man, I looked closely. He did seem familiar, but where from? He had grey hair, and a small bald patch on the left hand side of his head. He walked with a bit of a limp, and seemed in a lot of agony. I nervously sat down, and watched as the old, crippled man slowly dawdled into the room, sitting down next to me. He seemed to know me, his eyes told me so. They had a glint, as if he had finally met someone he had been dying to see for a long time. ...read more.


As I went to greet her in the hallway, I noticed that she too had been crying. I consoled her, and asked her why she had been crying. We sat back in the living room, and she held my hand tightly. "Daniel, do you remember going to your grandfather's cottage when you were seven?" she asked, her voice croaking as she fought back the tears. "Oh no..." I sobbed, knowing exactly what she was about to say. "Well," she started, "this morning I had a phone call in work from the police. Your grandfather was attacked earlier this morning, at about seven o'clock. These ruthless thugs smashed the door down, and were going to steal his pension." My mother smiled. "You know what he was like, and tried to stop them. Well, one of them stabbed him in his side..." She pointed to her side, to exactly the same place where the ghostly man and I had encountered the pain. My mother started to cry, she was desperately trying to hold back the tears. "They killed him!" she yelled, completely breaking down and sobbing profusely onto my shoulder. More tears rolled down my cheek, as my mother and I held each other. Why? Why him? ...read more.

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