Creative Writing – The Ghost of Death


By: Chloe Rudnicki | Opinion Editor

December 16, 2015


Cold melted steel birthed from a machine that has never felt the warmth of silky sun or a human caress.

A soft, slender figure that changes shape with every touch.

A beating heart wrapped in metal.


A wrangled soul.

A face painted with the sufferings of 28 years, 32 days.

A canvas upon which suffering has emptied itself.

A bleeding pulp for a heart.


The two strangers meet, and become one another.

A hand bleached by night curls its fingers around the handle.

The creature is now a child screaming at the world.

It is desolation.

It is a dagger.

Finger shakes with rage, dancing tentatively with the soft curve of the trigger.

The slim figure of the angered child glistens with stray beads of sweat.

Flickering coals process the spectacle from sunken face.

Another walks down the street,

not seeing the violent child or the hurt man that wields it.

The heart is burning.

Slight pressure is made with the pleading trigger.


A hacking cough muffled by the obscurity of the stranger’s eye and the abstract thing’s cavernous whole protruding from its body

A soft spark.

A red that grows increasingly excited.

The liberation, the jump of a bullet from the festering angers and stupidities of mankind.

Piercing air, tearing time to shreds, eager to feed.

Biting into flesh.

Driven mad by the body’s warmth.

The bullet nestles itself into its new home.


A pair of wide eyes are yanked back to the very beginnings of time.

They see everything, they feel everything.

Then they are possessed.

Glowing orbs.

Now black marbles.

A thud.

An entanglement of limbs.

A spider’s web.

Luring humanity into this trap of death

The body turns cold at the ground’s indifferent touch.


The metallic specter turns again, dripping black with a pain that cannot be quenched.

Another zealous ball of human weakness slams into fragile, tortured life.


Another thud.

A beautiful monster, colored with tears and blood and fragmented memories sharp to the touch.

It lays between two victims, infuriatingly hollow.


Bodies bleed out.

Minds empty themselves.

Souls flit away.

All decays.

The elegant phantom remains, soaking in red.

Partially inspired by all the recent gun violence.

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