Anger of the world...

N1njapirate

Okely dokely, I wrote this in leaving cert last year. Don't worry, I'm not one of those terrible writers with unrealistic hopes of being published. I just thought I'd throw this up and give everyone something to think about.

The Anger of the World.

The core of the world hissed. Its anger boiled malevolently and gushed up through the mountain before finally reaching the summit in a spectacular display of orange, gold and red fires. The volcano's product seeped slowly down terrain spreading like a rich carpet destructing what it enclosed. A town was devastated. And I was busy...

People perceive me to be a terrible thing; I am an omen, voodoo, superstition. A black ominous cloak engulfs my matter-less body. I am less than air. I seek out the weakened and I take them. I am cruel, unjust and without compassion, hated by the world with the exceptions of those who have no will. Their desire for the inception of death is great. They await me, and I come. I will always come.

Allow me to show you my day, my journeys, my experiences - a hint of my existence. I do not know everything, but I am very knowledgeable. My knowledge mainly comes from observations made through experiences. But my hypotheses are almost always correct. They are proven every day innumerable times.

Today, I do not begin work, as I am always working, but I continue forth. I find myself in a dilapidated cottage in Ireland. The locks are rusted, the windows are tarnished and instantly I feel a cold loneliness as I enter the two roomed abode. It does not take me long to find her, crumbled on a dusty moth ridden armchair as she takes her last pitiful breath. Rosary beads struggle to free themselves from her static right hand. Just like her soul. It is bursting with energy accumulated over the last twenty lonely years of the spinster's life. It is smiling blissfully, with a hope for a dazzling future of contentment and company. I take her hand and her adventure begins, as I feel her soul being delivered from an insufferable evil. Lonely she would be no more.

Next, I am in China. I slouch down to a filthy litter strewn trench and touch the fingers of a newborn girl. She has been here for a while, silent and pale, she reminds me of a child's porcelain toy. Dead longer than she was alive, she was not a sinner. She reeks of innocence and forgiveness is in her glazed eyes. Others would not make this observation. They would pity the newborn, and mourn for the tragedy of a youth. But they would not realize the pity should fall upon those who now carry the blood of an innocent upon their souls. The newborn is happy now. Her soul has risen, it has become lighter than air and there is nothing that can weigh it down any more. What hope can the souls of the guilty sustain?

I am in an alleyway. Mexico. The boy is shaking with fear. I arrived too early. This is something I do not wish to witness. Against perennial belief of my 'uncompassionate nature', no amount of infinite experiencing these matters prepares me for these situations. I try a lullaby I heard a mother once sing to a dying child. I'm confident it brought her some comfort, but it did not dispense any to me. I am too beyond such parodies.

Now, however, it is time. His soul does not leap with energy. It is confused and its confusion means this is not a decision I can make. Seeing the silver metallic gun clasped in his right hand, I am aware of the contrast with the old woman. He chose to die with a gun and not with hope. I am unsure where this soul belongs, where it will end up. I send the soul on its twisted path. I am uneasy. If it was something I was capable of, I would shudder.

Next is something I cannot comprehend. Iraq shudders. I hear explosions. Mines give me four scores instantly. Guns present me with countless souls. I move quickly. I wish I had more time to observe every soul individually like each deserves but the destruction is too great. My hypothesis conjured on this matter like so many times before, tells me greed, power and unintelligence is the cause for war. But I cannot understand why the primal instincts of humans do not tell them that what they are doing is wrong.

Across oceans, while this is occurring, I am at the bedside of a young man. The clinically white room is filled with emotions and colour through the presence of a weeping family and a partner. The partner weeps not only for his love, lying motionless and weak on the bed, but for his own future. His immune system is failing him like the near-dead patient. He needs to talk about the taboo but now that he has lost his beloved, he feels isolated in the world. I feel his soul more than the one I am about to steal from the room. That is how I am capable of pity.

Two miles away, in the next five minutes, two children die in the back of a small car. The drunken mother survives the collision with an oncoming car. The injustice of this is understandable. She will be forced to live with her mistake. The kids will dance and play together joyously forever more, while the mother will never experience the taste of alcohol on her lips once again.

Two streets from the accident a heroine addict's saturated body crumbles. The soul has hope. The soul is sorry. In a different continent, forty Ethiopians die in the time it takes for the addict's body to slither to the floor. Back to Mexico and I now have the killer to the boy in the alleyway. His soul holds fragments of other souls within it. As his soul seeps into me, I feel those fragments being released. They are freed as the murderer's soul becomes trapped in its own eternal sentence.

I take a moment. I sit on the summit of a marvelous mountain and watch the nearby volcano and its devastating effects. The sun is disappearing behind folds of rocks to the west, but the beautiful colours erupting from the mountain will light this little component of the world for hours to come. The world is truly spectacular, but faulted. As I sit, I think of all the self-inflicting damage caused by the human race. I think of the unnecessary hardship caused by simple daily decisions wrongly made. I wish I could live the lives for these people. I am wizened from their mistakes and their follies. My moment is brief.

I do not begin work again.
I am always working.
I continue forth.

skateing dragon

I really, really, really liked that. It was great. You are a good writer and had fabulous description and a great vocabulary. Pleasure to read, did you get an A?

dublinario

Leaving Cert? Jesus. Insanely talented.

N1njapirate

Thanks dudes. Yeah I got an A but an A2.. I pretty much sucked at everything except the creative writing part..

Insect Overlord

That's a fantastic piece of writing. My own teacher for Leaving Cert English discouraged creative writing, mainly because so few of us in the class were capable of writing anything near the standard of this story. Well done!

I have to ask, had you prepared the topic in advance or did the idea come to you on the day of the exam?