Uber-Short Story for AP Lit
Marcus Gallagher sat in his favorite chair the evening of the anniversary of his parents death, brooding. It was a rich scarlet with a high back, and made its occupants look like royalty. Indeed, Marcus resembled a defeated king that morning, as he sat hunched over. His face, normally a lively pink, was white and drained of all color and emotion. A candle on the oak table in front of him flickered with intensity, as if screaming for attention. Yet Marcus paid no heed to the candle, he merely stared at the blank living room wall as if a movie were being projected upon it. He had been dreaming again last night.
Marcus usually dreamed when he was upset or dwelling on something, and the night before the nine year mark of his parent’s untimely death. Usually his dreams consisted of the horrible images of his childhood which had been seared into his memory, yet they were simply evanescent images and nothing more. Last night however, was different. Marcus had dreamed of his family.
The dream had started out normally, he recalled. Marcus, now eleven again, found himself in a bed that he recognized as his own, although he had not slept in it in many years. He was in his room, in what must have been his boyhood home. He could scarcely recollect it now. Dream Marcus lay under the plush covers, slipping softly into a sleep of his own. Yet before his eyes could fully close, he sat bolt upright, as if shocked. Smoke began pouring from the bed sheets as if it were water, flooding the room. Marcus saw himself running out the door and into the hall. The walls intermittently would glow a dull red; a fire was burning. He knew he had to reach the door, but he did not know where it could be found. The now vermillion halls stretched before him like a labyrinth at Crete, or perhaps a corridor to hell. Marcus ran as fast as his dream would allow him to move, yet his progress was abated by the ever enclosing flames. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a wooden frame; a stark contrast to the crackling wallpaper of the corridor. He ran to it and frantically pulled on the knob, yet he was too weak. It was at that moment that Dream Marcus turned around, resigned to the fact that he was going to die. From some distant chamber above him, Marcus heard a cracking sound which he could not identify, yet later in life he knew as the sound of the creaking timbers of a ship. The house, nearly consumed by the insatiable flames, was going to collapse. As Marcus turned, he saw his mother and father. They too had a reddish hue to them, as if they were covered in a soft, fine scarlet dust. Wordlessly, his father pulled open the door and shoved Marcus out of their dying homestead. Marcus fell on the ground and scraped his knee, from which blood poured freely. He turned and watched his father run back to grab his mother, who had become trapped by the flames. Marcus watched as at last the house, unable to withstand any further deterioration, let out a roar of anguish as it crashed to the ground. Minutes later, when he fully comprehended the situation, Marcus echoed the roar. The skeleton of his ruined homestead leered at him through the embers, mocking his grief.
Marcus was jolted out of his thoughts by a high pitched, squealing noise. It was his apartment’s fire alarm. The candle in front of him, tired of being ignored, had ignited a dog-eared magazine that was sharing the table. Marcus did not stir, he only stirred as the flames spread from the table to the floor, and then to the walls. His wallpaper began to peel as the flames began to crawl their way towards the roof.
Marcus could have easily sought to control the fire, but he did not. Soon it began to rage out of hand, yet Marcus was still indifferent to the fact. This time he was truly resigned to his fate, and this time his parents were not there to save him. As he stared out a nearby window, the sun was setting, painting the sky with flames of its own. Soon, however, it was obscured by smoke, and as night fell he was completely oblivious. The fire had now caught on the legs of his chair, and was licking at his ankles. It soon spread up his body, leaving nothing but ash and smoke in its wake.
So Marcus Gallagher’s body died in the same fashion that his life had ended nine years ago.
Marcus usually dreamed when he was upset or dwelling on something, and the night before the nine year mark of his parent’s untimely death. Usually his dreams consisted of the horrible images of his childhood which had been seared into his memory, yet they were simply evanescent images and nothing more. Last night however, was different. Marcus had dreamed of his family.
The dream had started out normally, he recalled. Marcus, now eleven again, found himself in a bed that he recognized as his own, although he had not slept in it in many years. He was in his room, in what must have been his boyhood home. He could scarcely recollect it now. Dream Marcus lay under the plush covers, slipping softly into a sleep of his own. Yet before his eyes could fully close, he sat bolt upright, as if shocked. Smoke began pouring from the bed sheets as if it were water, flooding the room. Marcus saw himself running out the door and into the hall. The walls intermittently would glow a dull red; a fire was burning. He knew he had to reach the door, but he did not know where it could be found. The now vermillion halls stretched before him like a labyrinth at Crete, or perhaps a corridor to hell. Marcus ran as fast as his dream would allow him to move, yet his progress was abated by the ever enclosing flames. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a wooden frame; a stark contrast to the crackling wallpaper of the corridor. He ran to it and frantically pulled on the knob, yet he was too weak. It was at that moment that Dream Marcus turned around, resigned to the fact that he was going to die. From some distant chamber above him, Marcus heard a cracking sound which he could not identify, yet later in life he knew as the sound of the creaking timbers of a ship. The house, nearly consumed by the insatiable flames, was going to collapse. As Marcus turned, he saw his mother and father. They too had a reddish hue to them, as if they were covered in a soft, fine scarlet dust. Wordlessly, his father pulled open the door and shoved Marcus out of their dying homestead. Marcus fell on the ground and scraped his knee, from which blood poured freely. He turned and watched his father run back to grab his mother, who had become trapped by the flames. Marcus watched as at last the house, unable to withstand any further deterioration, let out a roar of anguish as it crashed to the ground. Minutes later, when he fully comprehended the situation, Marcus echoed the roar. The skeleton of his ruined homestead leered at him through the embers, mocking his grief.
Marcus was jolted out of his thoughts by a high pitched, squealing noise. It was his apartment’s fire alarm. The candle in front of him, tired of being ignored, had ignited a dog-eared magazine that was sharing the table. Marcus did not stir, he only stirred as the flames spread from the table to the floor, and then to the walls. His wallpaper began to peel as the flames began to crawl their way towards the roof.
Marcus could have easily sought to control the fire, but he did not. Soon it began to rage out of hand, yet Marcus was still indifferent to the fact. This time he was truly resigned to his fate, and this time his parents were not there to save him. As he stared out a nearby window, the sun was setting, painting the sky with flames of its own. Soon, however, it was obscured by smoke, and as night fell he was completely oblivious. The fire had now caught on the legs of his chair, and was licking at his ankles. It soon spread up his body, leaving nothing but ash and smoke in its wake.
So Marcus Gallagher’s body died in the same fashion that his life had ended nine years ago.