Tatiana DeDera

ENG 205

Harrison Blackman

13 May 2020

Cover Letter

Dear Mr. Blackman,

For the final portfolio assignment, I have attached my original and revised versions of my

short story, “The Curse of Anticipation,” as well as versions of my original and revised poems,

“Life In Black and White,” “Your Insecurity Around My Neck,” and “Ghostly.”

I received a lot of positive feedback when it came to my short story! Not many of my peers had

huge overarching critiques that would change or alter the plot of my story in any way. However,

your critiques inspired me the most! I loved your suggestion about the Grandpa giving Dyson a

crucifix for his birthday to imply foreshadowing of the curse. Many people, including you,

wanted the story to be clear in its certainty of the curse and whether it is real, but I rejected that

criticism. I feel as though it is up for the reader to decide. The grandpa asked for “money, power

and for someone to love him.” Pictures on the walls in his home show that he had a job, had

power, and had a wife. However, all of these things didn’t last forever and weren’t exaggerated. I

want the reader to decide whether or not they think the curse was the doing for these things or

whether the grandpa lived a simple magic-free life. Another piece of advice that I dismissed was

the suggestion to develop the witch a bit more. A few classmates wanted to me describe her or

maybe pan back to the grandpa’s point of view when he was creating the curse. While it was a

good idea, I want this story to be about Dyson—I want the reader to be Dyson. I didn’t want the
grandpa’s point of view to come into play because that would take away from my main idea.

Furthermore, I don’t want Dyson to picture and hallucinate the witch, because that is not what he

is scared of; he is scared of the curse and the possibility of him dying.

Additionally, I am following your critiques when it came to the poems as well. Not many

of my classmates provide critiques that really stood out. The critiques that I applied to my poems

were just small rhyme scheme or wording adjustments. Everyone seemed to enjoy and

understand what messages my poems were conveying, so there’s no need to adjust my poems as

a whole. However, the criticism that I am dismissing are those that commented on my decision to

have the poems rhyme. I enjoy having a rhyme scheme; it makes me want to read the poem out

loud and appreciate the wording more. It is also how I “push” myself when it comes to writing

poetry.

Through taking English 205, my beliefs and opinions about writing fiction and poetry

have vastly changed. I am guilty for being the type of writer that writes something once and then

never goes back to it; I never edit, check, or reread my work. This class has taught me that I need

to always go back and revise my work. I should also share my work with my companions to

receive their feedback as well. Exposing myself to other people’s criticism has really helped me

realize my writing mistakes and flaws. A writing strategy that worked really well for me was to

create an outline before I begin my work. I always have these “flawless” ideas of what I want the

content to be and I usually go straight to writing it down. This can sometimes hurry my pace and

jumble my ideas up. I have learned that when I have these ideas, it is best that I write them down

in an organized fashion so I can steadily build off of those key points.

 I plan on being an English teacher when I am older, so this class and the skills it has

taught me will really come in handy. I am basically going into an occupation that requires me to

critique papers and offer suggestions. This class and its dynamic in teaching fiction and poetry

will allow me to be a successful teacher who is knowledgable on the subject.

Sincerely,

Tatiana DeDera

 Short Story, Original Version: “The Curse of Anticipation”

What did I do to deserve this? When mom caught me smoking a joint with my friends in

the garage, of course I expected to be punished in some way. But forcing me to go over to my

grandpa’s house? Totally uncalled for. I mean, I don’t even know the guy. I kind of remember

him coming to my eighth birthday party, but all he did was drop off my present and leave. You

know what he got me? A keychain. A fucking keychain. What eight-year-old wants a keychain? I

hate the guy.

“Ya know, you didn’t need to drive me. I have my own car.” I mutter, staring out of the

passenger seat window. Grandpa only lives a couple of neighborhoods over, but the drive has felt

like forever. We pass countless houses with kids playing in their front yards, enjoying their

summer. It’s my last summer of high school, that should be me enjoying the break.

“Driving you to your grandpa’s is the only way I can make sure that you stay there,” she

replies, adding a scoff to the end of her sentence. “I know for a fact that if you drove yourself,

you’d leave the minute that your grandpa gives you any trouble.”

Trouble? He better not give me any trouble. I’m sacrificing my time to hang out with this

guy. I wish mom would've given me a list of chores to be done or had taken away my

PlayStation. Anything would've been better than this.

“This is the worst punishment you’ve ever given me. It’s so unfair,” I say while sitting up

straight in my seat to face her. “This summer was supposed to be special and you’re ruining it.”

“Dyson, please. This isn't a punishment,” she shakes her head. “Your grandpa is sick and

needs someone to be taking care of him until he gets better. I could do it, but since you have
nothing better to do with your summer than to experiment with drugs in our garage, you seem

like the better option,” she says with a tight sarcastic smile. I roll my eyes so hard that it hurts.

We pull up to the house less than a minute later. The grass in the front yard is almost a

beige color, suffering from an obvious lack of hydration. The cracks in the concrete walkway to

the front door are filled with weeds that stretch all the way up to my ankle. The paint on the

crimson front door was chipping along the splintering wood. Mom pulls out the spare key she

keeps for grandpa's house from her purse and unlocks the door. Immediately, the smell of moth

balls and mold hit my nose like a punch in the face. It’s that kind of smell that all old people

have, except ten times worse.

“Hi, Dad,” mom says while turning the corner and walking into the living room. I follow

close behind her, examining grandpa’s house as I go. I've never actually been here before. The

walls are a faded navy green, littered with many framed photos along them. They’re all black and

white and very old looking. The colorless photos portray many elements of his life story. There’s

a picture of him in a suit shaking hands with what looks like his co-workers. Oh, and a picture of

my mother as a baby. The biggest framed photo was a portrait of grandpa and his wife. I never

got to meet my grandma, she died before I was born.

“Look who Ive got with me,” mom says after kissing the top of grandpa’s head. She

gestures to me but he doesn't budge from what he's doing. Grandpa’s hunched over in his dark

brown lounge chair, edging closer to the TV screen in front of him. The TV’s small — way

smaller than the one we have at home. Damn, I think my laptop’s bigger than that thing. No

wonder the old guy has gotta lean in closer to see it. It looks like he’s watching game show

television..I hate game shows.

 “Hi Grandpa Charlie…” I take a seat in the lounge chair next to his. He doesn't reply to

me. Shouldn't he be happy to see me? After all, it has been years since I have last seen him. I

look up at my mom with an annoyed expression but she just shrugs in response. “It’s, uh, nice to

see you.” I say while looking at him intently, expecting some sort of reaction. The flickering

lights from the TV illuminate his face in an unnecessary way. His skin looks like worn out

leather, wrinkles boring deeply into it. He has spots all over his skin too. They look like the kind

you would find on a bruised banana. His deep set eyes are framed by large, bushy, gray

eyebrows. Its funny how he has so much facial hair, yet when it comes down to the hair on the

top of his head, he merely has balding fuzz, like the hairs on a peach. Dandruff clumps lie on his

scalp and his shoulders. He has a prominent scowl on his face, yet I don’t think I’ve ever seen

him without one. He is truly an image of death.

“Now, you two have fun,” mom states while making her way towards the door. “Watch

TV, make him something to eat, be good company.”

“Mhm, yea, I will.” I take off my jacket and slouch into the sofa, attempting to make

myself comfortable. Mom leaves, shutting the front door and locking it behind her. I turn to look

at my grandpa. He’s sitting there like a statue, so still that I wonder if he's even blinking or not. Is

this what its like to be an old person? Watching TV all day, not moving an inch? It seems so

lonely — so depressing. God, I never want to grow old.

We had been watching TV for hours, gameshow after gameshow. I lost count of how

many episodes of Family Feud had been played. What did Grandpa like about game shows
anyway? Perhaps he likes the excitement of the game because his life is so boring, or maybe he

likes the fact that each episode ends with someone winning a prize.

“So, do you want something to drink? Eat? I can make you whatever you want,” I say

while standing up from my seat. He had been coughing quite frequently throughout the night, the

poor guy could use something nourishing. With one swift motion, Grandpa’s head turns away

from the TV and faces in my direction. I jump a little, surprised since this is the first time he has

even acknowledged my existence in the entire four hours that I’ve been here.

“Sit down, boy.” His voice sounds so gruff and croaky, as if he hasn't had any water in

years. He watches me intently as I sit back down, our eyes locked the entire time. The entire

mood has changed in the room and I suddenly feel uncomfortable.

“Is everything okay?” I ask as he leans forward, grabbing the remote to turn the television

off.

“I need to tell you a story — a story I should’ve told you a long time ago,” he says in all

seriousness. A story? God, he scared me. I thought he was about to tell me that he was having a

heart attack or something, but a story is nothing to worry about. Old people tell boring stories all

the time. I nod, urging him to go on with the story he’s dying to tell me about.

“I was an orphan when I was a kid. I had nothing: no family, no money, and no power

over my own life. It had felt like everything was decided for me, like I was destined to be alone,”

he says staring off into the distance behind me. I had never known he was an orphan, my mom

failed to mention that part. “When I was around your age, 17 or maybe 18, I had been let go by

the orphanage and got myself involved with a bad group of friends,” he shakes his head at the

thought. “We were young and greedy, thinking the world only revolved around us. We stole from
stores, robbed people, the lot. Didn’t need no job or place to call home. If we wanted something,

we got it, no matter the risk.” I couldn’t pinpoint grandpa’s emotions as he told the story. He

didn’t seem regretful for the things he had done, but he certainly didn't look proud either.

“I had a friend named Tom at the time. Went from dirt poor to bloody rich within one

night. We all asked how he came about the money and he said it was given to him as a result

from a wish he had made-”

“A wish?” I scoff. That’s total bullshit. If all of my wishes would've come true by now, I

wouldn't be sitting in this rotting scented house.

“Trust me, I didn't believe him at first either, but he said he had gotten his wish granted

by a witch—a lady who works with black magic and such. He took us to meet her a couple days

later. Her practice was set up in this worn down trailer, a moveable home sort of deal. Anyway,

upon meeting her, she chose to grant my wishes out of all my friends who had gone with me to

see if Tom was telling the truth.”

“What did you ask for?” I scoot closer to grandpa, at the edge of my seat.

“Well, I asked for three things. Three things that are impossible for someone to just

conjure up. Three things that I had wanted the most: money, power, and for someone to love me.

To my surprise, she said that those were easy wishes to grant, she would just want something in

return—like a deal.”

“What did she want?” I ask eagerly, my eyebrows knitting together. He was narrating the

story far to slow for my liking.

“She…” grandpa struggles to find the words. “She wanted to take the next born son in

my family.”
 Huh? “Next born son?” I shake my head in confusion.

“She said that the day I die shall be his last day as well. That the demons of hell will drag

him down with me.” His nostrils are flared and his eyebrows are furrowed, seeming as serious as

one could be. I laugh. I cant help but to laugh. What the hell was this old guy going on about?

“So what then?” I chuckle. “Did you accept this deal?”

“I did… I was selfish.”

My laughter halts. I mean, the wishes came true for Tom, they must’ve come true for

grandpa. In that case, who… “Who is the next born son?”

“I got a job, was promoted to management, earned more than enough money, and met the

love of my life all in the same year.”

“Who is the next born son?”

“I mean you could say that it was all a coincidence. I did have to put in plenty of work

into my successful career. I doubt that magic-”

“Who’s gonna fucking die grandpa?!”

He stops talking and locks eyes with me. My breathing is ragged and my heart is beating

faster than I’d like it to. Is this old fucker just trying to scare me? I haven't seen the guy in ages

and he pulls some shit like this?

“Your grandma and I gave birth to your mother. That makes you the next born son.” The

house was dead silent. The only noise to be heard was the heavy thumping of my heart in my

chest. As my breathing turns into a pant, I bring my palms up to my face, pressing them deep into

the temples of my skull as I try to comprehend what he just said. Was grandpa full of shit? I

mean, why should I believe anything he says? I hardly even know the guy.
 “Now listen, Dyson, I doubt that any creatures will be coming to get you. Who’s to say

that the lady possessed real magic? She-”

“Ya know, I-I think I’ve heard enough,” I stand up from the sofa. “I need to go home.” I

frantically begin putting on my jacket. Grandpa grabs my wrist with a surprisingly strong grip for

an old man. We stare at each other.

“Dyson, I didn't tell you this story to scare you. I think its pretty clear to the both of us

that I wont be living much longer. I’m old and I'm getting sicker day by day. Now, I don't believe

in all that voodoo mumbo-jumbo, but the closer I get to my death, the closer you may be getting

to yours. I just want you to keep an eye out for anything strange, be careful.” He says with a

tinge of worry in his eyes. I snatch my hand away. Why is he even acting as if he cares—as if

he's sorry?

“Screw you,” are the only words I manage to say before I turn on my heels and rush out

of the house. The cool evening air washes over my face as soon as I step outside. I let out a sigh

of relief, freed from the cage it felt like being inside that house.

I guess I'm walking home.

I hear faint footsteps behind me. I have been walking for a good twenty minutes or so.

Just from what I saw during the drive earlier, I feel as though I can navigate my way back home.

The footsteps are a little louder. I remember all of these houses from the car ride. All the kids that

were playing earlier are probably enjoying a nice dinner with their families right about now. I

wish I had a nice family. The footsteps sound even closer.

 I whip my head around to see who these persistent footsteps belong to. There’s

someone…a couple feet away. An all black figure quickly and steadily walking behind me.

Towards me. The figure begins to pick up their pace, a speed-walk turning into a jog. I turn back

around, facing ahead of me. I’m picturing the figure behind me in my head. Tall, quick, and

adorned in all black. What-what did its face look like? I turn to look behind me again. The

figure’s face—I can’t see it. It's completely black. I turn forward.

A shadow figure with no face… That couldn’t be one of those demons grandpa was

talking about, right? No, it's obviously dark outside, thats why it looks so black. Maybe I should

turn back around just one more time to really make sure. I turn my head around slowly, scared to

confirm if my terrifying suspicions were true.

Fuck! The figure is in a full sprint running towards me in the darkness. Its legs are long

and arms are chopping through the air. Its feet are slapping the ground in a fast paced repetition.

I’m scared stiff, standing completely still and watching this shadow demon sprint towards me.

Shouldn’t that “fight or flight” shit be kicking in right about now? Run, Dyson, fucking run!

With my head still turned behind me, I try to move my feet but as the figure approaches

closer I instinctively pick up my pace. Spastically, I begin to run. My head whips forward and I

forget where I am supposed to be going. Continuously running in a straight line, I loose all sense

of direction. No matter how hard I try to push my body to run fast, the footsteps behind me

continue to get closer. Their fast paced slaps are in unison with the pounding of my heart in my

chest. My outtakes of breath turn into small airy sobs.

“Please,” I cry, shutting my eyes as tightly as I can. “Please don't drag me to hell!” My

running becomes sloppy, arms flailing around my sides and my feet drag along the ground. The
footsteps are closing in on me. As I come to a stop, I shutter, putting my arms around my head

and hunching over as if I had made myself an invisible cocoon.

“Dude…” A manly voice is heard next to me. I slowly lower my arms and open my eyes.

A tall fit man was standing next to me, jogging in place. He’s wearing an all black sweatsuit with

his hoodie pulled up over his head. I see his face perfectly. He takes out an earbud from his ear

and looks me up and down in judgmental disgust. “What’s your problem?”

“I-I-you,” I stutter, unable to form a sentence. I’m so confused. This man didn't have a

face five-seconds ago, I swear it. He puts his earbud back in his ear, shaking his head at me. I bet

he thinks I’m on drugs or something and I wouldn’t blame him for assuming so. I was acting

crazy. There’s no such thing as demons. I let out a soft chuckle.

“Sorry about that,” a smile forms on my face. “You have yourself a good rest of your

night. Enjoy your jog!” I shout to him as he sprints away. However, once I was alone again, I felt

as if I could feel a hundred sets of eyes on me coming from places that I couldn’t quite see.

Its been two days since I’ve last seen grandpa and I’ve barely slept a wink. I mean, how

could I? When you're told that demons are after you, you get all sorts of nightmares and dark

thoughts. I think I'm reacting to the situation as any other sane person would. I had told my mom

about what grandpa said the night I came home from his house but I doubt she believed me—she

barely listened to me. No matter who I tell, I doubt anyone would actually believe me. I’ve been

contemplating over whether I should go back to grandpa’s or not. Yea, he’s a nut bag, but I think

now more than ever I should be watching over him to make sure he doesn't die. I don’t know
whats holding me back though. I haven’t left the house since that night. It’s not that I’m scared,

I’m just being overly cautious.

I rise from my bed from yet another terrible night’s sleep. I had a dream that a tall dark

creature, with eyes as wide as baseballs and a toothy grin that stretched from ear-to-ear, was

standing in the corner of my room, watching me sleep—waiting. I hope I stop having such

terrible nightmares. I walk into my bathroom and turn on the cold water. Lowering my face down

near the sink, I give it a good few splashes of icy water, instantly waking myself up. Patting my

face dry with the towel on the counter next to me, I slowly lower it beneath my eyes and stare at

my reflection.

My reflection’s staring back at me, no towel in it’s hands, with eyes as wide as baseballs,

and a smile stretching from ear-to-ear. It’s head tips lower and mouth begins to open, as if its

going to say something. I drop the towel and my hands begin to shake violently. A scream is

caught in my throat but I’m in such shock that it won’t come out. Instead of running, I fall on my

ass and begin crawling out of the bathroom. My entire body is shaking as if I had been thrown

naked into snow.

The second I am outside of the bathroom I slam the door and press my back against it.

My chest is heaving, rising and falling so prominently that it looked like my heart was trying to

jump out of my body. What the fuck was that thing?! I-I know that I'm not dreaming because

when I fell on my ass, it hurt. I shut my eyes tight, the image of the reflection not leaving my

mind. I didn't just see what I just saw. I didn't just see what I just saw. I’m just tired from the lack

of sleep I’ve been getting, that’s all. Y-yea, my mind’s just making shit up cause it hasn't gotten

to rest in a while. Makes sense.

 I slowly stand up and my legs profusely shake below me. I make my way towards my

bed and grab my phone. Maybe Richie, my best friend, would believe all this non-sense if I told

him. Someone’s gotta help me out here. I call him.

“Hey, Richie?” I try to sound as pleasant as possible but its hard when you've just seen a

demon in your bathroom.

“Hey man, what’s up?” He says boisterously into the phone. Richie’s the type of guy you

could bother at any time of the day and he’d be happy to hear from you. “You wouldn’t believe

who I have over right now!” I’d believe anything at this point.

“Who?”

“Jenny fucking Stevens, dude!”

“Jenny from Chem?” I half-heartedly laugh. “What is she doing at your place so early in

the morning?”

“Totally nailed her last night,” he says proudly. “Startin’ my summer off with a bang,” He

laughs into the phone. How pathetic. Here I am, seeing demons everywhere, meanwhile Richie’s

doing the hottest girls in school. “Anyway, what’d you call for?”

“Oh…I-um,” I don’t even know where to begin without sounding like a total psychopath.

I swallow my thoughts. Maybe I should just begin with the story grandpa—

“You’re going to die.”

My heart drops down into my stomach and tears well up in my eyes. W-what did he just

say? Why—how would Richie even…? The phrase echoes in my head, bouncing around the

walls of my skull and managing to infiltrate every piece of my mind.

“What did you just say?” I ask with my voice shaking.

 “You wanna get high?” Richie replies in a tone of confusion. “Ya know, like we did a

week ago?” I don't reply. That isn’t what he said. Why is he fucking around with me? “Are you

okay, man?”

“I gotta go. Bye.” I hang up the phone and drop it onto the bed. Pulling my knees up to

my chest, I rock back and forth. You’re going to die. You’re going to die. You’re going to die.

A week has passed and I haven’t left my room. I’ve barely ate, slept, or talked to anyone.

I try not to even get up from my bed. I know that if I get up, the demons will try to get me. My

mom will come in once and a while to check up on me, but I don't hear her when she talks. I

don't hear anything. Only the voices of my grandpa and Richie ring through my head.

I lie in my bed with my covers pulling up to my chin, staring at the white ceiling above

me. I picture the faces of the demons, my grandfather, and what I imagine the witch looked like.

They all have it in for me. They all want me to die. They all want me to die.

My thoughts are interrupted when my mom knocks on the door to my room. She walks

in, sniffling, and holding her phone loosely in her hand. “Dyson,” she says in a voice that is

broken by tears. “I have some bad news.” She sits on the edge of my bed and wipes her nose

with the sleeve of her sweater before looking at me. Her eyes are red and puffy, and her cheeks

are tear stained. I slowly sit up in bed.

“It breaks my heart to tell you,” her voice croaks, “but your grandfather is dead.”

Panic, worry, fear—they’re all understatements to the feeling that courses through my

body. “No…” I softly say.

 “Its true,” she nods while looking down at her lap, “I just got a call saying that he died

earlier this morning. Passed away in his sleep.”

“No.” I stand up out of bed and run my hands through my hair. “No. No. No.” I pace the

floor, back and forth in front of my mother. She watches me intently, eyebrows knitted together.

“Dyson, calm down.”

“No,” I shake my head.

“Dyson, it'll be alright.”

“No!”

“Dyson, please—”

“No, its too soon!” I scream in her face.

“Die, son!”

I fall to the ground shaking my head, tears streaming uncontrollably down my cheeks and

into my mouth. “I don’t want to die…” I say in a whisper to myself. My body is numb and my

mind is empty. “I don't want to die.”

“Who-who said you were going to die?” mom says softly, bending down and placing a

hand on my shoulder. I flinch and back away from her.

“You did. You just did!”

She gasps and shakes her head, throwing her hands over her mouth. “No, I didn’t. I’d

never say that to you.”

I crawl backwards away from her until my back meets the wall of my bedroom. “You’re

just like the rest of them.” I say, looking her up and down. Before she has the chance to reply, I

shout, “Just leave! Leave me alone and don’t come back in here…Promise me, you won’t come
back in here.” She stands to her feet and nods. With one final look at me, she heads towards the

door and closes it as she leaves.

I continue to sit there, shaking, and trying to process what just happened. Grandpa is

dead. I’m next. What am I going to do? What am I going to do? I can’t just sit here and wait for

the demons to come, anticipating my death. I don’t want to see their faces again. I can’t see their

faces again. I don't even want to imagine how they will choose to kill me. At least grandpa got to

die peacefully in his sleep…

I rise to my feet and open my bathroom door. I quickly make my way towards the

medicine cabinet. I know my reflection is watching me — waiting to snatch me at the right

moment. As soon as I find what I need, I sprint out of the bathroom and jump onto my bed. In a

rush, I scramble to open the lid. I hear them. They’re coming. With a shaky hand, I pour the

contents of the bottle onto my bed and shove them by the handful into my mouth. The demons

are around my bed, all of them, every single one of them. I begin to laugh.

“You thought you were going to kill me!” Each swallow was painful, the contents

scraping the walls of my throat as they travel down my body. “You fuckers thought you were

going to kill me!” I don't look at them as I speak. My gaze is locked onto my actions. Once

theres nothing left to swallow, I throw myself back onto my pillow. As soon as I am laying down,

I shut my eyes as tight as possible with a wide smile on my face.

As I fall asleep, I finally understand what I did to deserve this.

The End
 Short Story, Revised Version: “The Curse of Anticipation”

What did I do to deserve this? When mom caught me smoking a joint with my friends in

the garage, of course I expected to be punished in some way. But forcing me to go over to my

grandpa’s house? Totally uncalled for. I mean, I don’t even know the guy. I kind of remember

him coming to my tenth birthday party, but all he did was drop off my present and leave. You

know what he got me? A crucifix. A fucking crucifix. What eight-year-old wants a crucifix? The

guy’s a total weirdo.

“Ya know, you didn’t need to drive me. I have my own car.” I mutter, staring out of the

passenger seat window. Grandpa only lives a couple of neighborhoods over, but the drive has felt

like forever. We pass countless houses with kids playing in their front yards, enjoying their

summer. It’s my last summer of high school, that should be me enjoying the break.

“Driving you to your grandpa’s is the only way I can make sure that you stay there,” she

replies, adding a scoff to the end of her sentence. “I know for a fact that if you drove yourself,

you’d leave the minute that your grandpa gives you any trouble.”

Trouble? He better not give me any trouble. I’m sacrificing my time to hang out with this

guy. I wish mom would've given me a list of chores to be done or had taken away my

PlayStation. Anything would've been better than this.

“This is the worst punishment you’ve ever given me. It’s so unfair,” I say while sitting up

straight in my seat to face her. “This summer was supposed to be special and you’re ruining it.”

“Dyson, please. This isn't a punishment,” she shakes her head. “Your grandpa is sick and

needs someone to be taking care of him until he gets better. I could do it, but since you have
nothing better to do with your summer than to experiment with drugs in our garage, you seem

like the better option,” she says with a tight sarcastic smile. I roll my eyes so hard that it hurts.

We pull up to the house less than a minute later. The grass in the front yard is almost a

beige color, suffering from an obvious lack of hydration. The cracks in the concrete walkway to

the front door are filled with weeds that stretch all the way up to my ankle. The paint on the

crimson front door was chipping along the splintering wood. Mom pulls out the spare key she

keeps for grandpa's house from her purse and unlocks the door. Immediately, the smell of moth

balls and mold hit my nose like a punch in the face. It’s that kind of smell that all old people

have, except ten times worse.

“Hi, Dad,” mom says while turning the corner and walking into the living room. I follow

close behind her, examining grandpa’s house as I go. I've never actually been here before. It was

a pretty big house for just one man to live in. The walls are a faded navy green, littered with

many framed photos along them. They’re all black and white and very old looking. The colorless

photos portray many elements of his life story. There’s a picture of him in a suit sitting at a desk

that has a “manager” plate on it. Oh, and a picture of my mother as a baby. The biggest framed

photo was a portrait of grandpa and his wife. I never got to meet my grandma, she died before I

was born. It seemed like he lived a pretty nice life though; had a wife, a good job and got himself

a high position in it.

“Look who Ive got with me,” mom says after kissing the top of grandpa’s head. She

gestures to me but he doesn't budge from what he's doing. Grandpa’s hunched over in his dark

brown lounge chair, edging closer to the TV screen in front of him. The TV’s small — way

smaller than the one we have at home. Damn, I think my laptop’s bigger than that thing. No
wonder the old guy has gotta lean in closer to see it. It looks like he’s watching game show

television..I hate game shows.

“Hi Grandpa Charlie…” I take a seat in the lounge chair next to his. He doesn't reply to

me. Shouldn't he be happy to see me? After all, it has been years since I have last seen him. I

look up at my mom with an annoyed expression but she just shrugs in response. “It’s, uh, nice to

see you.” I say while looking at him intently, expecting some sort of reaction. The flickering

lights from the TV illuminate his face in an unnecessary way. His skin looks like worn out

leather, wrinkles boring deeply into it. He has spots all over his skin too. They look like the kind

you would find on a bruised banana. His deep set eyes are framed by large, bushy, gray

eyebrows. Its funny how he has so much facial hair, yet when it comes down to the hair on the

top of his head, he merely has balding fuzz, like the hairs on a peach. Dandruff clumps lie on his

scalp and his shoulders. He has a prominent scowl on his face, yet I don’t think I’ve ever seen

him without one. He is truly an image of death.

“Now, you two have fun,” mom states while making her way towards the door. “Watch

TV, make him something to eat, be good company.”

“Mhm, yea, I will.” I take off my jacket and slouch into the sofa, attempting to make

myself comfortable. Mom leaves, shutting the front door and locking it behind her. I turn to look

at my grandpa. He’s sitting there like a statue, so still that I wonder if he's even blinking or not. Is

this what its like to be an old person? Watching TV all day, not moving an inch? It seems so

lonely — so depressing. God, I never want to grow old.

~
 We had been watching TV for hours, gameshow after gameshow. I lost count of how

many episodes of Family Feud had been played. What did Grandpa like about game shows

anyway? Perhaps he likes the excitement of the game because his life is so boring, or maybe he

likes the fact that each episode ends with someone winning a prize.

“So, do you want something to drink? Eat? I can make you whatever you want,” I say

while standing up from my seat. He had been coughing quite frequently throughout the night, the

poor guy could use something nourishing. With one swift motion, Grandpa’s head turns away

from the TV and faces in my direction. I jump a little, surprised since this is the first time he has

even acknowledged my existence in the entire four hours that I’ve been here.

“Sit down, boy.” His voice sounds so gruff and croaky, as if he hasn't had any water in

years. He watches me intently as I sit back down, our eyes locked the entire time. The entire

mood has changed in the room and I suddenly feel uncomfortable.

“Is everything okay?” I ask as he leans forward, grabbing the remote to turn the television

off.

“I need to tell you a story — a story I should’ve told you a long time ago,” he says in all

seriousness. A story? God, he scared me. I thought he was about to tell me that he was having a

heart attack or something, but a story is nothing to worry about. Old people tell boring stories all

the time. I nod, urging him to go on with the story he’s dying to tell me about.

“I was an orphan when I was a kid. I had nothing: no family, no money, and no power

over my own life. It had felt like everything was decided for me, like I was destined to be alone,”

he says staring off into the distance behind me. I had never known he was an orphan, my mom

failed to mention that part. “When I was around your age, 17 or maybe 18, I had been let go by
the orphanage and got myself involved with a bad group of friends,” he shakes his head at the

thought. “We were young and greedy, thinking the world only revolved around us. We stole from

stores, robbed people, the lot. Didn’t need no job or place to call home. If we wanted something,

we got it, no matter the risk.” I couldn’t pinpoint grandpa’s emotions as he told the story. He

didn’t seem regretful for the things he had done, but he certainly didn't look proud either.

“I had a friend named Tom at the time. Went from dirt poor to bloody rich within one

night. We all asked how he came about the money and he said it was given to him as a result

from a wish he had made-”

“A wish?” I scoff. That’s total bullshit. If all of my wishes would've come true by now, I

wouldn't be sitting in this rotting scented house.

“Trust me, I didn't believe him at first either, but he said he had gotten his wish granted

by a witch—a lady who works with black magic and such. He took us to meet her a couple days

later. Her practice was set up in this worn down trailer, a moveable home sort of deal. Anyway,

upon meeting her, she chose to grant my wishes out of all my friends who had gone with me to

see if Tom was telling the truth.”

“What did you ask for?” I scoot closer to grandpa, at the edge of my seat.

“Well, I asked for three things. Three things that are impossible for someone to just

conjure up. Three things that I had wanted the most: money, power, and for someone to love me.

To my surprise, she said that those were easy wishes to grant, she would just want something in

return—like a deal.”

“What did she want?” I ask eagerly, my eyebrows knitting together. He was narrating the

story far to slow for my liking.

 “She…” grandpa struggles to find the words. His chapped lips purse while his gaze falls

to the floor. “She wanted to take the next born son in my family.”

Huh? “Next born son?” I shake my head in confusion.

“She said that the day I die shall be his last day as well. That the demons of hell will drag

him down with me.” His nostrils are flared and his eyebrows are furrowed, seeming as serious as

one could be. I laugh. I cant help but to laugh. What the hell was this old guy going on about?

“So what then?” I chuckle. “Did you accept this deal?”

“I did… I was selfish.”

My laughter halts. I mean, the wishes came true for Tom, they must’ve come true for

grandpa. In that case, who… “Who is the next born son?”

“I got a job, was promoted to management, earned more than enough money, and met the

love of my life all in the same year.”

“Who is the next born son?” Is it me?

“I mean you could say that it was all a coincidence. I did have to put in plenty of work

into my successful career. I doubt that magic-”

“Who’s gonna fucking die grandpa?!” Why isn't he telling me?!

He stops talking and locks eyes with me. My breathing is ragged and my heart is beating

faster than I’d like it to. Is this old fucker just trying to scare me? I haven't seen the guy in ages

and he pulls some shit like this?

“Your grandma and I gave birth to your mother. That makes you the next born son.” The

house was dead silent. The only noise to be heard was the heavy thumping of my heart in my

chest. As my breathing turns into a pant, I bring my palms up to my face, pressing them deep into
the temples of my skull as I try to comprehend what he just said. Was grandpa full of shit? I

mean, why should I believe anything he says? I hardly even know the guy.

“Now listen, Dyson, I doubt that any creatures will be coming to get you. Who’s to say

that the lady possessed real magic? She-”

“Ya know, I-I think I’ve heard enough,” I stand up from the sofa. “I need to go home.” I

frantically begin putting on my jacket. Grandpa grabs my wrist with a surprisingly strong grip for

an old man. We stare at each other.

“Dyson, I didn't tell you this story to scare you. I think its pretty clear to the both of us

that I wont be living much longer. I’m old and I'm getting sicker day by day. Now, I don't believe

in all that voodoo mumbo-jumbo, but the closer I get to my death, the closer you may be getting

to yours. I just want you to keep an eye out for anything strange, be careful.” He says with a

tinge of worry in his eyes. I snatch my hand away. Why is he even acting as if he cares—as if

he's sorry?

“Screw you,” are the only words I manage to say before I turn on my heels and rush out

of the house. The cool evening air washes over my face as soon as I step outside. I let out a sigh

of relief, freed from the cage it felt like being inside that house.

I guess I'm walking home.

I hear faint footsteps behind me. I have been walking for a good twenty minutes or so.

Just from what I saw during the drive earlier, I feel as though I can navigate my way back home.

The footsteps are a little louder. I remember all of these houses from the car ride. All the kids that
were playing earlier are probably enjoying a nice dinner with their families right about now. I

wish I had a nice family. The footsteps sound even closer.

I whip my head around to see who these persistent footsteps belong to. There’s

someone…a couple feet away. An all black figure quickly and steadily walking behind me.

Towards me. The figure begins to pick up their pace, a speed-walk turning into a jog. I turn back

around, facing ahead of me. I’m picturing the figure behind me in my head. Tall, quick, and

adorned in all black. What-what did its face look like? I turn to look behind me again. The

figure’s face—I can’t see it. It's completely black. I turn forward.

A shadow figure with no face… That couldn’t be one of those demons grandpa was

talking about, right? No, it's obviously dark outside, thats why it looks so black. Maybe I should

turn back around just one more time to really make sure. I turn my head around slowly, scared to

confirm if my terrifying suspicions were true.

Fuck! The figure is in a full sprint running towards me in the darkness. Its legs are long

and arms are chopping through the air. Its feet are slapping the ground in a fast paced repetition.

I’m scared stiff, standing completely still and watching this shadow demon sprint towards me.

Shouldn’t that “fight or flight” shit be kicking in right about now? Run, Dyson, fucking run!

With my head still turned behind me, I try to move my feet but as the figure approaches

closer I instinctively pick up my pace. Spastically, I begin to run. My head whips forward and I

forget where I am supposed to be going. Continuously running in a straight line, I loose all sense

of direction. No matter how hard I try to push my body to run fast, the footsteps behind me

continue to get closer. Their fast paced slaps are in unison with the pounding of my heart in my

chest. My outtakes of breath turn into small airy sobs.

 “Please,” I cry, shutting my eyes as tightly as I can. “Please don't drag me to hell!” My

running becomes sloppy, arms flailing around my sides and my feet drag along the ground. The

footsteps are closing in on me. As I come to a stop, I shutter, putting my arms around my head

and hunching over as if I had made myself an invisible cocoon.

“Dude…” A manly voice is heard next to me. I slowly lower my arms and open my eyes.

A tall fit man was standing next to me, jogging in place. He’s wearing an all black sweatsuit with

his hoodie pulled up over his head. I see his face perfectly. He takes out an earbud from his ear

and looks me up and down in judgmental disgust. “What’s your problem?”

“I-I-you,” I stutter, unable to form a sentence. I’m so confused. This man didn't have a

face five-seconds ago, I swear it. He puts his earbud back in his ear, shaking his head at me. I bet

he thinks I’m on drugs or something and I wouldn’t blame him for assuming so. I was acting

crazy. There’s no such thing as demons. I let out a soft chuckle.

“Sorry about that,” a smile forms on my face. “You have yourself a good rest of your

night. Enjoy your jog!” I shout to him as he sprints away. However, once I was alone again, I felt

as if I could feel a hundred sets of eyes on me coming from places that I couldn’t quite see.

Its been two days since I’ve last seen grandpa and I’ve barely slept a wink. I mean, how

could I? When you're told that demons are after you, you get all sorts of nightmares and dark

thoughts. I think I'm reacting to the situation as any other sane person would. I had told my mom

about what grandpa said the night I came home from his house but I doubt she believed me—she

barely listened to me. No matter who I tell, I doubt anyone would actually believe me. I’ve been

contemplating over whether I should go back to grandpa’s or not. Yea, he’s a nut bag, but I think
now more than ever I should be watching over him to make sure he doesn't die. I don’t know

whats holding me back though. I haven’t left the house since that night. It’s not that I’m scared,

I’m just being overly cautious.

I rise from my bed from yet another terrible night’s sleep. I had a dream that a tall dark

creature, with eyes as wide as baseballs and a toothy grin that stretched from ear-to-ear, was

standing in the corner of my room, watching me sleep—waiting. I hope I stop having such

terrible nightmares. I walk into my bathroom and turn on the cold water. Lowering my face down

near the sink, I give it a good few splashes of icy water, instantly waking myself up. Patting my

face dry with the towel on the counter next to me, I slowly lower it beneath my eyes and stare at

my reflection.

My reflection’s staring back at me, no towel in it’s hands, with eyes as wide as baseballs,

and a smile stretching from ear-to-ear. It’s head tips lower and mouth begins to open, as if its

going to say something. I drop the towel and my hands begin to shake violently. A scream is

caught in my throat but I’m in such shock that it won’t come out. Instead of running, I fall on my

ass and begin crawling out of the bathroom. My entire body is shaking as if I had been thrown

naked into snow.

The second I am outside of the bathroom I slam the door and press my back against it.

My chest is heaving, rising and falling so prominently that it looked like my heart was trying to

jump out of my body. What the fuck was that thing?! I-I know that I'm not dreaming because

when I fell on my ass, it hurt. I shut my eyes tight, the image of the reflection not leaving my

mind. I didn't just see what I just saw. I didn't just see what I just saw. I’m just tired from the lack
of sleep I’ve been getting, that’s all. Y-yea, my mind’s just making shit up cause it hasn't gotten

to rest in a while. Makes sense.

I slowly stand up and my legs profusely shake below me. I make my way towards my

bed and grab my phone. Maybe Richie, my best friend, would believe all this non-sense if I told

him. Someone’s gotta help me out here. I call him.

“Hey, Richie?” I try to sound as pleasant as possible but its hard when you've just seen a

demon in your bathroom.

“Hey man, what’s up?” He says boisterously into the phone. Richie’s the type of guy you

could bother at any time of the day and he’d be happy to hear from you. “You wouldn’t believe

who I have over right now!” I’d believe anything at this point.

“Who?”

“Jenny fucking Stevens, dude!”

“Jenny from Chem?” I half-heartedly laugh. “What is she doing at your place so early in

the morning?”

“Totally nailed her last night,” he says proudly. “Startin’ my summer off with a bang,” He

laughs into the phone. How pathetic. Here I am, seeing demons everywhere, meanwhile Richie’s

doing the hottest girls in school. “Anyway, what’d you call for?”

“Oh…I-um,” I don’t even know where to begin without sounding like a total psychopath.

I swallow my thoughts. Maybe I should just begin with the story grandpa—

“You’re going to die.”

 My heart drops down into my stomach and tears well up in my eyes. W-what did he just

say? Why—how would Richie even…? The phrase echoes in my head, bouncing around the

walls of my skull and managing to infiltrate every piece of my mind.

“What did you just say?” I ask with my voice shaking.

“You wanna get high?” Richie replies in a tone of confusion. “Ya know, like we did a

week ago?” I don't reply. That isn’t what he said. Why is he fucking around with me? “Are you

okay, man?”

“I gotta go. Bye.” I hang up the phone and drop it onto the bed. Pulling my knees up to

my chest, I rock back and forth. You’re going to die. You’re going to die. You’re going to die.

A week has passed and I haven’t left my room. I’ve barely ate, slept, or talked to anyone.

I try not to even get up from my bed. I know that if I get up, the demons will try to get me. My

mom will come in once and a while to check up on me, but I don't hear her when she talks. I

don't hear anything. Only the voices of my grandpa and Richie ring through my head.

I lie in my bed with my covers pulling up to my chin, staring at the white ceiling above

me. I picture the faces of the demons, my grandfather, and what I imagine the witch looked like.

They all have it in for me. They all want me to die. They all want me to die.

My thoughts are interrupted when my mom knocks on the door to my room. She walks

in, sniffling, and holding her phone loosely in her hand. “Dyson,” she says in a voice that is

broken by tears. “I have some bad news.” She sits on the edge of my bed and wipes her nose

with the sleeve of her sweater before looking at me. Her eyes are red and puffy, and her cheeks

are tear stained. I slowly sit up in bed.

 “It breaks my heart to tell you,” her voice croaks, “but your grandfather is dead.”

Panic, worry, fear—they’re all understatements to the feeling that courses through my

body. “No…” I softly say.

“Its true,” she nods while looking down at her lap, “I just got a call saying that he died

earlier this morning. Passed away in his sleep.”

“No.” I stand up out of bed and run my hands through my hair. “No. No. No.” I pace the

floor, back and forth in front of my mother. She watches me intently, eyebrows knitted together.

“Dyson, calm down.”

“No,” I shake my head.

“Dyson, it'll be alright.”

“No!”

“Dyson, please—”

“No, its too soon!” I scream in her face.

“Die, son!”

I fall to the ground shaking my head, tears streaming uncontrollably down my cheeks and

into my mouth. “I don’t want to die…” I say in a whisper to myself. My body is numb and my

mind is empty. “I don't want to die.”

“Who-who said you were going to die?” mom says softly, bending down and placing a

hand on my shoulder. I flinch and back away from her.

“You did. You just did!”

She gasps and shakes her head, throwing her hands over her mouth. “No, I didn’t. I’d

never say that to you.”

 I crawl backwards away from her until my back meets the wall of my bedroom. “You’re

just like the rest of them.” I say, looking her up and down. Before she has the chance to reply, I

shout, “Just leave! Leave me alone and don’t come back in here…Promise me, you won’t come

back in here.” She stands to her feet and nods. With one final look at me, she heads towards the

door and closes it as she leaves.

I continue to sit there, shaking, and trying to process what just happened. Grandpa is

dead. I’m next. What am I going to do? What am I going to do? I can’t just sit here and wait for

the demons to come, anticipating my death. I don’t want to see their faces again. I can’t see their

faces again. I don't even want to imagine how they will choose to kill me. At least grandpa got to

die peacefully in his sleep…

I rise to my feet and open my bathroom door. I quickly make my way towards the

medicine cabinet. I know my reflection is watching me — waiting to snatch me at the right

moment. As soon as I find what I need, I sprint out of the bathroom and jump onto my bed. In a

rush, I scramble to open the lid. I hear them. They’re coming. With a shaky hand, I pour the

contents of the bottle onto my bed and shove them by the handful into my mouth. The demons

are around my bed, all of them, every single one of them. I know that I am going to die today,

but what is truly killing me is this anticipation. I want this over with. I begin to laugh.

“You thought you were going to kill me!” Each swallow was painful, the contents

scraping the walls of my throat as they travel down my body. “You fuckers thought you were

going to kill me!” I don't look at them as I speak. My gaze is locked onto my actions. Once

theres nothing left to swallow, I throw myself back onto my pillow. As soon as I am laying down,

I shut my eyes as tight as possible with a wide smile on my face.

As I fall asleep, I finally understand what I did to deserve this. 

Life In Black And White (Poem #1, Original Version)

“I can’t tell,
What’s your race?”
“You’re pretty for someone with a brown face.”

One parent black

One parent white
What happens when two opposite colors unite?

How can I be proud

When I feel ashamed?
Labeled so many racist names

Mulatto, Mutt,
Mongrel, and Mixed.
When it comes to two races, there’s only one to pick

“You don’t look white”

“You don’t act black”
Why should society decide how I interact?

Colors are mixed,

Not people.
Address me as a human—your equal. 

Life In Black And White (Poem #1, Revised Version)

“I can’t tell,
What’s your race?”
“You’re pretty for someone with a brown face.”

One parent black

One parent white
What happens when two opposite colors unite?

How can I be proud

When I feel ashamed?
Labeled so many biased names

Mulatto, Mutt,
Mongrel, and Mixed.
When it comes to two races, there’s only one to pick

“You don’t look white”

“You don’t act black”
Why should society decide how I interact?

Colors are mixed,

Not people.
Address me as a human—your equal. 

Your Insecurity Around My Neck (Poem #2, Original Version)

The necklace you gave to me

It spelt your name
It represented my loyalty,
like a collar and chain

The necklace you gave to me

You’d tug it, I’d come
It symbolized your control to a degree
No matter what you did, I’d succumb

The necklace you gave to me

It tightened everyday
It gave me bruises and made me bleed
A chain of gold that covered foul play

The necklace you gave to me

“Never take it off.”
Yet when I did, I could finally breathe
Our love was never enough. 

Your Insecurity Around My Neck (Poem #2, Revised Version)

The necklace you gave to me

A heart locket with a golden frame
To open the heart, use the key
I wore it as our love’s claim

The necklace you gave to me

You’d tug it, I’d come
It symbolized your control to a degree
No matter what you did, I’d succumb

The necklace you gave to me

It tightened everyday
It gave me bruises and made me bleed
A chain of gold that covered foul play

The necklace you gave to me

“Never take it off.”
Yet when I did, I could breathe
Finally free but at what cost?

Ghostly (Poem #3, Original Version)

You keep haunting me.

But when I want to see you,
you are never there. 

Ghostly (Poem #3, Revised Version)

Why do you haunt me,

yet when I want to see you,
you are never there?