2000 word short story

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

That wasn’t the only thought going through the man’s mind. In fact, his brain was racing; bursting with frantic thoughts about what the hell was going on in his current situation. He glanced around quickly, trying to take in his surroundings to the best of his ability, catching flashes of scared people huddling in groups, a mother holding her baby tight to the floor, the cashier frozen behind the register, his hands in the air. They all had nothing in common, as far as the man could see, except for the expressions of pure terror that all of their faces seemed to mirror.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

So many different types of people that had no names, all in this dingy, brightly lit no name dollar store on the corner of some no name street in some no name town. That was why he had chosen it. This wasn’t supposed to be some sort of big heist or anything. He didn’t want to make the news, didn’t want to make some big statement or leave his mark on the world. He just wanted—no, he needed—enough money to buy one thing, and then that was it, he swore. He would never take anything from anyone again.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

“DROP YOUR WEAPON AND PUT YOUR HANDS UP!” The voice on the megaphone was earsplitting, but to the man, it was like a nail being driven into his already pounding brain. “I SAID DROP IT AND STEP OUTSIDE THE STORE!” The man glanced at the window hesitantly, looking through the smudged glass at the assortment of law enforcement this small town had been able to rustle up to respond to the situation. There were four or five of them, with more on the way, from what megaphone had said. He couldn’t tell if it was a bluff or not. It was too much to think about. He could make out a sheriff and a police officer, but he couldn’t tell what the rest of them were from. They weren’t wearing any uniforms, and they didn’t look like off duty cops. One was wearing glasses and a crudely put together outfit that had “NIEGHBORHOOD WATCH” scrawled across it with an eye and a flashlight. Another just looked like a redneck with a shotgun who was just itching for an excuse to blow someone away. A loud crack rang out, seemingly splitting the air in two. The man jumped behind the counter, waiting for the bullet that never came. Peeking over the side, he saw the neighborhood watch guy look at his gun in surprise, apparently wondering why the man’s brains weren’t splattered all over the floor in a pulpy mess as much as he was. The redneck shook his head in disgust and snatched the gun from glasses man. The man couldn’t resist a small chuckle, ducking his head so the people in the store couldn’t see the grin that flashed across his face. Glasses had forgotten to chamber a bullet before he fired.

That wasn’t how he thought that was going to go.

There were random bills scattered across the counter. A couple of twenties. A ten. Two singles. He told the cashier to count it. The cashier hesitated and the man put the gun to his head. He started to count and he gave the man a number. The man told him to keep going. The cashier stuttered, then turned back to the register and kept pulling out some more bills. He turned back and gave the man a number. The man nodded and handed the cashier a small, brown, paper bag. “In there.” He said. The cashier hesitated again. The man cocked the gun. “Now.”

This wasn’t how he wanted it to go.

A shot whistled through the window, shattering the pane of glass into a million shards that rained down upon the man and people in the store alike. The man ducked behind the counter, pulling the frightened cashier close to him. The cashier lashed out frantically, trying to break the man’s grip. He managed to catch the man with an elbow to the gut as more shots came through the windows, each one more deafening than the next. The man cracked the cashier over the head with the butt of his gun, over and over until he went slack in the man’s arms. As the man dragged the cashier through the aisle to cover, the shots began to hesitate, and then stop altogether. He could hear a voice with a decidedly authoritarian undertone scolding the officers who had fired into the store for their stupidity. Something about hostage safety. What hostages? He had no hostages. He peeked over the top of the shelf and saw the officers outside retreating to the safety of their cars, their guns lowered.  Safe for the moment, the man set the cashier down gently next to a pack of sour gummy worms that had been torn open by a stray bullet, spilling the sugary treat all over the floor. The man looked over to the corner and saw the mother in the corner, her baby crawling amongst the glass. He walked over and scooped the baby up, cradling it in one arm and his pistol in the other. He handed the baby over to the mother, who snatched it from him the way a starving man snatches at food, glaring at their savior with a savage disgust. The man turned around and crouched behind the frozen goods shelf. There were no hostages here. Only people.

That wasn’t how this was going to go.

He could see the people huddled close together, whispering, scared. One of the groups stood out more than the others. This group was different. They were younger, definitely not middle school but not quite on the older side of high school. One of the boys seemed to be at the center of the group, the rest of them clustered around him ready to follow his every order, like fruit flies sticking to the moist sides of a rotten apple. And he was rotten. Everything about the boy made the man angry. The way that he dressed, the cocky attitude, the way that every pore and orifice on his body just oozed rich; it made him sick. One of the girls was behind the boy, nudging him forward, whispering in his ear. The boy turned toward her, then glanced towards the man and caught his gaze. In that instance the mans hate for the boy turned to despair. "No," he thought as the boy started inching towards him. "Don't try it..."

It wont work the way you think it will, that’s not how it will go…

He hadn’t thought, just acted. When the boy had tried to rush him from the front, wrestling for the gun, he didn’t think. He just pointed the gun and fired twice into his chest. After all, that was what they had taught him to do while he was in the army. Don’t think, that’s not what you’re here for. Don’t panic, that’s when they’ll get you. Just point and shoot, that’s what we pay you for. He glanced back at the boy, who couldn’t be much older than fifteen, whose blood gurgling in his throat as his friends tried hopelessly to apply pressure to the wound, and caught his gaze. The boys eyes were starting to glaze over, but they were still able to convey a sort of unspoken message to the man. Make it stop. They seemed to say. It hurts so much. Just make it stop. Just make it stop make it stop make it stop make it stop make it stop…

This wasn’t supposed to happen. This isn’t how it was supposed to go.

The anguished gurgling sound that was the boy trying to breathe slowly began to fade into an agonizing silence. It had taken him three or four minutes to finally die, but it seemed like an hour. The man turned towards the wall, staring at his hand and the gun. It was still hot. He had pointed the gun at the boy to finish it but he couldn’t. He had thought about it. He had panicked. He couldn’t point and shoot. He threw up a little in his mouth. He swallowed it. He had to hold it in, he thought. He couldn’t show that he was weak. “Tommy?” he heard the panicked voice of a girl. It was one of the kids in the boys group. “TOMMY!”

No, no, no, no, no, no, no. This couldn’t be happening. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.

The girl sobbed. The man walked over to the wall and vomited. He had panicked. He was weak. He walked back over and waved with the gun, told her to get back to her group. She didn’t move. He didn’t care. He was weak.

He was supposed to be strong. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.

The man looked around the room and felt everyone’s different gazes fall upon him. His heart pounded, feeling the hate, despair, and agony of everyone in the room. He kept his facial expression calm but on the inside he was terrified, screaming in terror as he sunk into an ocean of despair. “This wasn’t him!” He wanted to shout. “I’m so sorry, please, just let me go!” But they couldn’t. They weren’t holding him hostage, it was the other way around. They couldn’t let him go. That’s not how hostages worked. He glanced around, frantically grasping for some shred of sympathy from any of the people there. But there was none. The only face that wasn’t judging him was the face of the cashier, whose face was cast in plaster with an expressionless moan while a slight bump on his head. The man winced, remembering that he had hit him earlier. He was sorry, but they would never know. They never could. Then they would know that he was weak. He was the bad guy here, not the other way around. He felt a tug on his shoulder and he turned around. It was the woman with the baby, who he had saved earlier. “Please,” she said, her voice taught with desperation. “Please just let us go.” She was terrified, but more than that, tired. The man thought about it. He was scared. So was she. So was everyone. Why couldn’t he? Why couldn’t he just let them all go? But then he remembered, spinning her around and grabbing her around the neck, her baby held tight in-between them as he pulled her close, stepping out into the shattered glass with his newfound human shield standing between him and the guns of the officers outside. He grinned. It was a strange kind of smile, one that did not accurately portray the deepening, sickening sadness that lay inside the pit of despair that was growing inside his heart. He dragged her, kicking and screaming, towards the brown paper bag that still lay on the tattered countertop, filled halfway with the money that all of this was about. The woman struggled, begged him, pleaded for him to let him go. His grip only tightened as his smile grew wider.

So this was how it was going to go.

Suddenly a blast ripped through the air and the man was left holding nothing but the bloody pulp of the tangled mass of what used to be the woman’s upper torso, her legs convulsing on the ground for a bit before finally coming to rest. The man screamed and dropped what was left of her in the glass, watching as the baby played in the river of blood, playing, laughing, drawing pictures in the blood soaked cavity of what used to be his mothers chest. The man whirled around, his gaze frantic, maddened. Like a bull, his vision blurred red, obscured by the hazy blood mist that surrounded him. He saw the redneck from before empty his shells onto the ground out of the shotgun, trying to reload but fumbling with the gun, all too aware of what he had just done. The man raced towards him in a blind rage as the babies laughs turned to crying, a piercing wail that only amplified the noise pounding in his ears as the man was ripped apart in a hail of bullets, blood and tears. As the man lay dying on the ground, his vision going black, there was only one thought on his mind.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to end.

The officer reached down, cleaning off his glasses before he patted down the mans body, searching him for anything useful. In his pocket was a wallet. Inside of the wallet there wasn’t much, just a couple of maxed out credit cards, no money and two photos; one of a sea foam green dress with the word “PROM?” scribbled across it in a black sharpie that what running out of ink; the other, a photo of a smiling young girl, who looked to be about sixteen or seventeen. The second photo had words written on it too, but these ones were much smaller and neater, and written in blue ballpoint pen. The officer brushed it off and squinted at them, holding the photo closer to his eyes.

“I love you daddy. And I always will”

The officer shook his head and placed the wallet back on what remained of the man’s bloody chest, torn apart by bullets and grief. It was a pity. This wasn’t how this man’s life was supposed to turn out.

That’s not how life is supposed to go.

Old Money, New Money, and Everybody Else
3/30/14
Throughout the history of the world, there have not always been people with "old Money". At one point in time everybody was just like everybody else. However, at some point and time certain people began to gain more power and wealth then others. Whether this was due to hard work on their part or they came into the power illegally or by chance, they began to gain distinct advantages over others. This was where the people with "New Money" began to come from. they had the means to continue to grow their money on an exponential proportion. Over time and generations, this new money would continue to build up and eventually, the people in possession of the money would forget where it was coming from. These people became those with old money, or the ones with money that they did not get for themselves. most people today are at one of these stages, however, people who start at the bottom have a much tougher time building their way to the top.
Luke Mallette
Honors English 2

I Celebrate Myself

I Celebrate Myself
By Luke Mallette
I celebrate myself was one of the main themes of the transcendentalists campaign against the higher ups in society. This is because celebratiing yourself goes against everything that they (the higher ups) stand for. This helps them because by celebrating themselves, they are rocusing more on themselves and less on pleasing the rich society that opresses them to achieve a little bit of recognition. It also says that everything and everybody is precious, that everybody matters, and that no one is better than anyone else. Because of this, this is something that the transcendentalists were sure to do, as they would do anything to support themselves against the society that was opressing them.

Poe

Edgar Allan Poe had a very hard life, and it showed through in his writing. His mother died when he was very young, and his father left his family. His foster mother died, he was estranged from his foster father, and both of his wives died. He dropped out of college, enlisted in the military, and then dropped out again, this time discharged after finding someone to take his place. The many dark happenings in his life sent him into a deep depression, making him withdrawn and angry. He vented his feelings in many of his works, including the Raven, which was written about after the time that his mother died. Many of his works include death and madness of his characters, which is reflected through how he viewed his own life. Lastly, his stepfather kept his stepmothers death a secret from him. Poe was outraged, and you can see how this affected him as many of his stories deal with secrets and betrayal, usually leading up to the death of one of the characters.

Luke Mallette

Modern Slavery

The topic of the next blog that we have to do for this class is modern slavery. When he says this Im just going to assume that he means in america, so I am going to say that slavery today would be the way that we treat the illegal aliens that immigrate here from mexico. This is because they work for almost no pay, which is as close to barely being able to survive on as their bosses can get. Another way would be that they are treated like slaves in the way that they are treated by their bosses. They are treated like crap and worked to exhaustion because their bosses, much like slave masters, believe that it would just be cheaper to replace them than to take care of them. Another reason is in there living conditions. They are often crowded in less than standard living conditions, with whole extended families living in one apartment. They often have to make not enough food last for a while, and they are hunted down like criminals, though instead of this being for leaving like it was with slaves, it is now for trying to get into the country. Lastly, they are treated like second class citizens, just like the slaves were.

What is an American?

What is an american? It is a question that many have asked, but there is much more to that question than that. Its not someone who is indigenous to america, as there is no one who really is. The closest that you could get to that would be the early native americans, but not even they started out here. Personally, I believe that any person that you ask would have a different opinion on what makes an american an american. Many people however, would have a couple of basic points the same. An american is hardworking. An american never gives up, no matter how hopeless a situation is. An american takes care of his family and makes sure that they stick together. And an american, no matter what, does whatever it takes to achieve success in what he wants most and fights injustice whenever it may appear. It sounds great, but if you think about it, that fits another group that wants to live in america but is currently being persecuted every time that they try to enter. That group is the illegal immigrants. They are hardworking, taking jobs that no one else wants for little pay. They never give up, doing whatever it takes to make it into the country, going to extreme lengths to gain entry. They take care of their family, keeping together everyone, no matter how hard it is. And no matter what, they will fight for their right to be in this country until the day that they die. So if thats what it means to be an american, than either change that definition or let them into the country.

Modern Puritan

In today's society, I would have to say that the American people as a whole are almost a symbolic version of the modern puritan society. While we are no longer as strict or nonconforming, we still share a large amount of characteristics with the old puritan society. For example, look at our laws on immigration from Mexico. A large "problem" in the US is with the illegal immigrants coming into America from Mexico. This is much like how the puritans treated the Indians by trying to keep them out of land that doesn't really belong to them. Also, they wouldn't have to be illegal of you would just let them in in the first place. Another reason that puritan society and modern day American society are similar is in the way that we persecute illegal aliens, much as the puritans persecuted adulterers. We try to exclude illegal immigrants by putting them on the edge of society and taking away their right to vote, because they were not born in the US and did not follow our "proper" customs. How is this so different from how the adulterers were shamed and cast out of society because of their crime? Also, in parts of Arizona now all Mexicans are required to have papers on them at all times that prove that they are a citizen. In my personal opinion, that sounds a lot like having to wear a letter A to show that you are an adulterer.