At the old age of 90 years old, being on my death bed, I have a story that needs to be addressed desperately before I pass. My story took place almost 80 years ago in 1935, when I was 15 years old in the woods behind my house, only a year after my sister was brutally killed. I will leave my writings on my bedside, as for when I pass someone is bound to read it. Being believed isn’t my concern, only that my story is known by someone, anyone, and that I can get some type of release before I pass.
This is my story of my encounter with the man in the black suit, in the winter of 1935:
A year before my encounter, my sister Faith and I were behind our house about a mile deep into the woods. We were playing hide and go seek, and iit was my turn to find her! I couldn’t find her anywhere and then thats when I saw the bush. It looked trampled so I ran to it, only to find my twelve year old sister lying in the snow in a puddle of her own blood. Her throat was ripped open, it looked like a wild animal had taken a bite out of her.
I avoided those woods for nearly a year until one ...
We all deal with death in our lives, and that is why Michael Lassell’s “How to Watch Your Brother Die” identifies with so many readers. It confronts head on the struggles of dealing with death. Lassell writes the piece like a field guide, an instruction set for dealing with death, but the piece is much more complex than its surface appearance. It touches on ideas of acceptance, regret, and misunderstanding to name a few. While many of us can identify with this story, I feel like the story I brought into the text has had a much deeper and profound impact. I brought the story of my grandmother’s death to the text and it completely changed how I analyzed this text and ultimately came to relate with it. I drew connections I would have never have drawn from simply reading this story once.
“The Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge,” by Ambrose Bierce tells the story of a man being executed. As the man dies he imagines his escape. Facing death, the man wants nothing more ten to go home to his family. During his journey home, the man comes to appreciate life. Perhaps he sees how he should have lived, only as a dying man could. When faced with death he truly begins to realize what he has lost. This story might show us how death can enlighten us about life.
We have all read interesting, touching stories in our lifetime. I have read a few, myself. The one that really sticks out in my mind is, The Unquiet Death of Robert Harris by Michael Kroll. This story left me filled with emotions, opinions, and questions.
A 19-year old female from Harford County, Maryland, narrated the story of Black Aggie, the urban legend of an overnight stay in a cemetery. She grew up Christian, and still lives in one of the more rural areas of Maryland with her younger sister and parents, who own and work at an electrical contracting business. Accustomed to hearing many ghost stories and urban legends, she first heard the story of Black Aggie during a middle school slumber party. Late one Saturday night over pizza in our Hagerstown dorm, she was more than willing to share her favorite urban legend with me.
Life is full of unfortunate circumstances; terrible episodes happen to people every day whether they are pious, unpleasant, or indifferent. Those individuals, then have to choose whether to come to terms with the ordeal, or ignore it completely. In the selections, “Young Goodman Brown” by Nathaniel Hawthorne, and “The Man in the Black Suit” by Steven King, both protagonists face traumatic experiences that affect their lives, and they are forced to cope with it. There are times in people’s lives when a terrible event happens, and because they are so unwilling to face it, they cope in an unhealthy manner. They do not know any other way to process what they are feeling, so they ignore it. Because people are either unwilling or unable to deal with
on a research trip for an article I am writing for the State Historical Society of Iowa. I hope to visit the home of a Robert Butler, a murderer and slavecatcher, who has featured prominently in months of my research since the house is owned by the Butler family, this will require me to interact with his descendants who have a very different perspective on how he should be remembered. I hope to apply the skills discussed in this class to writing a non-academic reflection on this journey. From this course, I know this essay will fail without my personal story. I have learned I must allow my experiences to shape this “journey of discovery,” to challenge my preconceived notions rather than adhere to
Guess what? I was right about the air. A few days later, my father said he felt really hot. Over the next few days, black spots and boils started appearing all over my father’s body. I knew that he was soon going to die. As he lay on his deathbed, he told me, “John, once I die, the officials are going to board the house up. I don’t know...
Have you ever wondered what happens to people whose lives are stolen by others? People who have an uncompleted business? Alice Sebold’s novel The Lovely Bones demonstrates that death is unavoidable through the narration of a dead, 14 year old girl who narrates her own death in great detail. She has been dead since December 6th, 1973 and was murdered by a neighbour named George Harvey.
Wadlington, Warwick. As I Lay Dying: Stories out of Stories. New York: Maxwell MacMillan International, 1992.
A universal characteristic of the survivor's tale is the subjectivity and incompleteness of the survivor's knowledge. The author works to provide a more objective view of events by including several storytellers. ...
A moment in time that I hold close to myself is the funeral of my grandmother. It occurred a couple of weeks ago on the Friday of the blood drive. The funeral itself was well done and the homily offered by the priest enlightened us with hope and truth. But when the anti-climatic end of the funeral came my family members and relatives were somberly shedding tears. A sense of disapproval began creeping into my mind. I was completely shocked that I did not feel any sense of sadness or remorse. I wanted to feel the pain. I wanted to mourn, but there was no source of grief for me to mourn. My grandma had lived a great life and left her imprint on the world. After further contemplation, I realized why I felt the way I felt. My grandmother still
“What crime do you believe you committed?” I asked the insane man. I was in my office with him, patiently waiting for an answer that I knew wouldn’t be true. This man had killed another man. I didn’t know either of their names, and I didn’t have any other information about this man other than that he was a caregiver to an old man with a cataract. I was determined to find out more about this man and if he needed any special care.
It had been a cold, snowy day, just a few days after Thanksgiving. My grandmother became immensely ill and unable to care for herself. We knew she had health problems but her sudden turn for the worst was so unexpected and therefore we weren’t prepared for the decisions that had to be made and the guilt we would feel. Where would grandma live? Would she be taken care of? So many concerns floated around. A solution was finally found and one that was believed to be the best or so we thought.
With music blasting, voices singing and talking, it was another typical ride to school with my sister. Because of our belated departure, I went fast, too fast. We started down the first road to our destination. This road is about three miles long and filled with little hills. As we broke the top of one of the small, blind hills in the middle of the right lane was a dead deer. Without any thought, purely by instinct I pulled the wheel of the car to the left and back over to the right. No big deal but I was going fast. The car swerved back to the left, to the right, to the left. Each time I could feel the car scratching the earth with its side. My body jolted with the sporadic movements of the car. The car swerved to the right for the last time. With my eyes sealed tight, I could feel my body float off the seat of the car.
Two years and four months ago I died. A terrible condition struck me, and I was unable to do anything about it. In a matter of less than a year, it crushed down all of my hopes and dreams. This condition was the death of my mother. Even today, when I talk about it, I burst into tears because I feel as though it was yesterday. I desperately tried to forget, and that meant living in denial about what had happened. I never wanted to speak about it whenever anyone would ask me how I felt. To lose my Mom meant losing my life. I felt I died with her. Many times I wished I had given up, but I knew it would break the promise we made years before she passed away. Therefore, I came back from the dead determined and more spirited than before.