The Stroke of EightA Poem by Sarah HawkinsonBe very aware of your fate, it could just end at the stroke of eight.
A knock at my door, I awake curiously. The peephole lies, but what do I see? A man in uniform proclaims my fate. “You will die at the stroke of eight.” “Nonsense!” I yell and return to bed. But I cannot blink what the man has said. To believe him is foolish; to trust is mad. But still I wonder, what if I had? Eight A.M. comes and goes. No company, no family, no friend nor foe. I wait each hour, dreading eight. I begin protecting by locking my gate. My windows, my garage, my very front door. All is secure, unless he arises from my floor. The telephone sounds, an unexpected call. “Be careful maim, you just might fall!” A breath, a click, a tone. I cannot move; I am chilled to the bone. He has the same voice as the mysterious man. How to prevent this, does he think I can? I shake it off, just for the night. I know I won’t go without a fight. If anything happened, I am sure I’d wake. But I’ll stay up just for his sake. Alas, I drift off, soundless in sleep. The man enters my house, not murmuring a peep. When I stir, it seems I am up very high. The man says something behind a deep sigh. I roll on my back just to feel the edge. The only thing I can wish for now is a bush or hedge. Sadly, what awaits me is the cement driveway. Now I remember what he initially had to say. In order to fall, I would need a shove. Gladly he grants it, watching my death from above. Splatter and crunch, my body deforms. But free I am, I am finally reborn. Be aware of men at your door. They could be your killer, or just a bore. But always be curious when it’s getting late. They might just say, “You will die at the stroke of eight.”
© 2009 Sarah HawkinsonAuthor's Note
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Added on April 11, 2009Last Updated on April 11, 2009 AuthorSarah HawkinsonCAAboutI have a dream of becoming a fashion writer, but horror writing is deep in my heart, as I have been writing it for ten years. more..Writing
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