The Artist's Tale

A young boy's life is constantly made miserable in school, but the fates sometimes intervene.

The man, mysterious and reserved, hailed from a small town not far from a nearby city. He was a gaunt, soft-spoken man who often hid his eyes behind small purple lenses. He put a thin hand to his mouth and cleared his throat. 
“Joel Pearsons,” he begins, “wants nothing more than to get through the day unscathed. Being a young student, and a particularly small one, has made Chuck Snidemann practically dance with joy at every opportunity to make his life miserable. Halloween fast approaches and Chuck has found himself a genius idea of how to make Joel regret ever showing his innocent little face in his town. So he thinks, anyway. Higher powers just might have other plans, however. And so our tale begins…..” 

Ninth grader Joel Pearsons strode anxiously down the long corridor, his knuckles white as he clutched his books to his chest. Older students jostled him and laughed as they passed. Just another typical day in school for Joel. On the opposite side of the crowded hall stood Chuck Snidemann and his cronies. His freckled mouth twisted upward into a sick grin upon spotting his prey. He gestured at Joel as he leaned in toward his counterparts. 
“I’m gonna scare the buhjeesus out of that kid tonight,” he muttered to his friends. “He takes that little path through the woods to get to his house, so I’m gonna make him wish he’d never been born when I catch him on the way.” His friends guffawed their approval and they disbanded before melting into the crowd toward their respective classes. 
That particular day was Halloween, so there was quite a bit of mischief planned for the following evening. Chuck generally knew when Joel would pass the old cemetery by the edge of the woods, so he got the components of his costume ready and began to act out his plan. 
By the time the last jagged cut was made, his costume was frighteningly realistic. He stepped out into the cold night, now transformed into a grisly zombie. Leaves blew all across the path as he ventured into the woods with his flashlight as his only companion. Its comforting glow calmed his unease as he scolded himself for feeling nervous about being there alone. He traveled further into the foreboding trees, dead and shrugging off their annual contents. The beam of his light reached the rusted black wrought-iron gate of the Shady Wood Cemetery. The metal cried out as he pulled the gate open, flecks of orange rust coating his makeup-covered palms. He stepped through the partially ajar gate and snickered as his eyes fell upon the perfect hiding place; an old tomb in the first row with a mere half of a marble slab in front of the dark hole that hid its dried resident. A giant monument of a weeping angel looked sadly down at him as he crawled inside and huddled near the entrance. 
“This,” he uttered with an eager grin, “Is going to be the best night of my life!” 
It must have been an hour before he had seen or heard any discernible movement outside the tomb. He poked his ghastly head out with impatience as he released a string of curses upon hearing the crackling of leaves. He was disappointed to find nothing but a cat wandering around, following the scent of some unknown critter. After it left, the only sound was that of the wind-blown foliage being swept across the cemetery by a howling wind. A distant rumbling reported, a storm clearly approaching. He cupped his hands and blew warmth into them before retreating back into his tomb. 
He sat in total darkness for what felt like an eternity, when suddenly a blinding flash erupted followed by a loud crack. Before he could react, the whole world around him seemed to be shaking itself to pieces. He coughed as earthy dust filled his lungs, and then all was silent again. He knelt on the ground and groped in the darkness for his flashlight, only to find it broken on the ground. The broken glass combed his fingers, so he cradled his hand and turned to the entrance to go home. 
He was shocked to find the entrance replaced by the giant face of the weeping angel, which had collapsed and blocked his only way out. He frantically began clawing at it and hyperventilating, fright gripping his heart like a cold fist. His chest burned as his lungs refused to keep up with the rest of his body. He stumbled backward and landed on a pile of sticks that cracked under his weight. He picked one up and found it strangely long and smooth. His other hand groped across an ovular rock. His eyes widened and brimmed with tears as he realized that rocks didn’t have eye sockets. 
He grew paralyzed with fear, and his heart gave out, sending him into the void in his own tomb. His glazed eyes were permanently fixed upon the face of the weeping angel that would silently judge him for eternity. Lightning cracked, and then all was still. 
A couple of miles away, Joel sat with his friends at a Halloween party, safe from the threatening storm outside. 
“This,” Joel thought, “Is going to be the best night of my life!”