This story was the first descriptive essay assignment we were given this year. We were told to find a picture, and that would be what our essay was based on. Unfortunately, I can no longer find the picture on which I based Michael Love.


Michael Love

A large, spacious room. A middle aged man crouching in the corner. The dim light cast tall, dark shadows around the second figure, lying lifelessly in the middle of the cold cement floor. There was a pool of dark, thick blood slowly growing from under the chest of the body, where a jagged edge had torn flesh.

Life had spilled swiftly from that body, as had blood.

Now, the frightened man in the corner shook violently, but not from the cold. Harsh shivers danced up and down his rigid spine.

The nameless people. They had killed his sister. Harsh murder, deep wounds, tearing at her beauty. What had she done? Why would they kill her? These were the questions that had been running through his mind for the past twenty minutes, bringing nothing but confusion.

There was thick, gray, acrid smoke billowing heavily into the room. They had set the house on fire. Dammit! Damn them, hadn't they done enough damage?

Now there were huge, orange flames licking the side of the door frame.

Still, he wouldn't leave her.

He pulled the thin jacket off his aching back and placed it tenderly over her body His last promise to her as she was dying was that he wouldn't leave her. And he would keep that promise if it cost him his own life.

His frail arms offered barely enough support as he lifted the limp body from the still growing pool of blood, not noticing that some splattered onto his arms and white cotton t-shirt.

He pulled her through the door, avoiding the growing flames. The intense heat was nearly unbearable.

Then he ran.

He ran fast and hard, his feet never really touching the green grass. His feet were wings, flying across the field.

When he was too weak to go any further, he let himself fall. He just stopped and crumpled to the ground, still damp from the last rain.

He held her body tight to his chest. Only then, he wept.

His name was Michael. She had been his sister, Morrighan, and now she was dead.

Still, he wouldn't leave her.

													-Jacqui Chesterton

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