an excerpt from a novel by Terrel
I heard barking from a dog. Was it Jay? His floppy tail ran to me and I bent down to hug the Labrador Beagle. He was big now. It was another dream, the dog, barking at me commanding to get up. I knew what it was barking for after a while. My hand was was spewing with blood and pus. The only thing that stopped (or tried to stop) it was my hand. It didn’t help much but something else did. Jay. He nabbed at my hand and started biting it. Pulling it off, in a way. I knew what my clever canine companion was up to and so I got a sharp stick. A switchblade actually. I started cutting. Blood slowly flowing down my left hand. I had to scream, but I didn’t know what I’d do if fear took me over as a puppet. A marionette actually. I tried to back out and leave my arm gashing, but I had to finish what I started. I began digging and I closed my eyes. I fainted.
I could not do this. After all, I hate blood, pain or anything injury-related that involves me. You see, I wouldn’t freak out as much if I fell and scraped my knee or letting blood spew out of my arm like a fatality in Mortal Kombat (one of my favorite games growing up). I slapped myself and started digging. I didn’t know what I was doing until I did it. It’s like those moments where you attempt something and then you go for it without thinking twice. I felt that growing up and now. Now I know what my parents mean by “slow down.” I pull my arm out of the socket with the sounds of a lawn mower devouring a body trailing behind. Next thing you know, my arm dangled on the floor with a big cut line through it. And my blood, flowing like my tears. Slow. Nice and slow. All that was left was my scapula. First my heart, which I need a replacement of, now my arm? What’s next; my leg? I didn’t know what to do now. I was a little lost and I was in pain. Was it a thought? I didn’t know what to do now. I tried getting up but I knew I had to sit down. I said I was going to go up, but something forced me down. So I did. I took a deep breath and slowly got up on one of my knees. Blood rushing down my arm. Horrifying. That’s what it felt like. Slowly getting up after you’ve been shot in the leg. Isn’t it nice? I feel like my legs are getting shot by shotgun or rifle. I didn’t know whatever it was, but I knew I had to stay here; dying. I knew those vultures are going to see it someday and get a chance to gnaw at my ribs or eat vociferously like we all do on Thanksgiving, but I don’t care, I don’t want to die here, so I got up.
I then saw this hut. Like it was the remastered version of Hansel and Gretel, but I was in no mood for candy. Although now that I mention it, I’m kinda hungry. The hut in which this owner lives seems worn out, as does he when he stepped out to sit on the bench in front of his porch. The man seemed rather like Scrooge. Slow and steady. He had a… well what was once a t-shirt is now barely a piece of clothing at all, the dirt stained fabric hangs onto his shoulders like a discarded old towel. Part of the bottom has been torn and the sleeves are worn away, leaving much of him exposed to the elements. His name was Finley. Mark Finley.
Finley was a black man with ragged white curls for hair and a beautiful woman for a wife named Bertha and a seven year old boy for a son named Eric and a cat for a pet named Yu. Together, four people (well three and a cat) were tied up and called a family. The Finleys. When Mark saw me stumble down his hill, he knew I needed medical help right away. I looked at his hut. It was big for a hut. Wooden, looked like it was made from an old pirate ship. In fact, I found out that Mark was a sailor. I came in and automatically saw a family photo over a large flame they call “bonfire” or “fireplace.” There was Bertha, putting her hand on Eric’s shoulder while he was stroking Yu’s fur, all smiling (besides Yu because cats can’t smile. Right?) All were happy except a tall man I quickly recognized.
“Is that Wyman?” I asked Mark as I pointed to the slender man in brown.
“Wyman?” Mark replied. “That’s William. Our son.”
I had to ask some more questions. I felt like a CSI detective. “Does he possess any weapon?”
“He snuck in a shotgun he named Bessie.”
“Where is he?”
“Duck hunting, why? Are you a cop?”
“You and your family are in danger,” I quickly replied. Just then cool mint chill possessed me and my arm healed quickly.
Then Autumn’s voice came. “Hello, Winter. Long time no see.”
I had some power inside me now. I laid back and now a watery force pushed me into an Atlantis-like tower. A city actually.
“You did it Winter, You Warped.”
“You Warped. You’re an Ancient Chief. Welcome to the Realm.”
It was pretty nice. For the dead. Hey, at least the dead could finally rest in peace. I was curious. I didn’t want to disrupt the busy Unknowns so I whispered in my head. “Autumn? Why you bring me here?”
“A little family reunion, that’s all.” Autumn whistled and then, like in New York (but slightly faster), a taxi arrived.
The driver asked us “Where to?” I spoke up. I asked to go visit the McKnights. Next thing you know, we were at my old house and the dining room light was on. I wanted to surprise my parents, but Jay kind of ruined it. My parents turned around and started to sob. I fell to my knees and cried. I never cried for my parents before until the day I visited them in the Realm. Together as a family. As one. We hugged for a short duration then looked to my left.
“And this must be Autumn,” replied Ella. “You taking good care of her?”
I couldn’t answer. I was too busy drinking a glass of lemonade that I helped myself to. I loved lemonade and still do. Even for a young adult; I still have some kid in me. And that is ok. At least they know that Winter will always be their baby boy.
Next thing you know I was on the grass of North Garden Cemetery. I soon snapped out of my unconsciousness and looked down at the tomb I was kneeling at. It was Summer’s. I soon dropped the flowers I somehow acquired and upheld the fact that everyone was dead. I cried by Summer’s grave. Everything was gone, My family, loves, friends, and my one companion…. I had nothing left, except for a Revolver. With one bullet left, I know where it had to go. I pull out two pictures on of Autumn and I and another one of my friends from camp. I looked up at God and said sorry while crying. I put the gun to my head and closed my eyes and suddenly saw white and heard nothing…nothing but screaming from someone else.
Terrel is a 15-year old sophomore. He says,”I love to write. My family inspired me to write this novel, which I will be self- publishing soon.”