Young Writers Society

NOTE: This is based of my short story called "Cabbage". You can find it in my portfolio! THANKYOU!

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NOTE2: The prologue rushes into things, I belive, but I think I'm alright with it because we don't really rush into the plot, but tell me what YOU think.

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“It’s okay Mom; I’m not afraid to die,” the boy whispered. The hum of the air conditioner accompanied the sound of his mother’s shifting around nervously.

“I just don’t want to lose you,” She bravely stared into her son’s eyes. The constant and regular bleep of the heart monitor was supposed to be reassuring, but it only brought a certain anxiety that the steady beat would suddenly flicker.

“Then I’ll make sure you don’t. I’ll,” the heart rate became irregular and a nurse stepped into the room dutifully while the boy’s mother let out a sob that had been boldly restrained. The boy’s weak eyes flickered back to his mother’s face where they then rested peaceful and reassuring.

“Mom, don’t be sad. It’s been a wonderful sixteen years and I owe it all to you.” He said weakly. The bleep wavered again until it rested on a single tone. The nurse raced over to the bed while the mother buried her face into her hands and wept.

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The soft spirit raced faster than an eye could follow. As the scenery faced, there came a room with black walls and a black tile floor. It went on in two opposite direction as far as one could see. Even then the shadows were all that kept the never-ending hall from sight. The boy found himself no longer as a spirit but as a being with a physical body. He was wearing a baggy shirt and jeans, but the frailty of his body distracted him until a voice spoke.

There was a woman in front of him with bright, neon green eyes, and bleach blonde hair. “Choose your afterlife,” she demanded. As she spoke, her hands spread out and gestured down the hallways in which many statues, angels, and gods now lined up leisurely in.

The boy walked down the hallway staring at each of the faces and figures. Some beckoned him, promising happiness or everlasting life. The bronze face of a man stared out at him, eternally joyful with his long hair flowing out behind him. Another face didn’t smile but held a certain intelligence that it attracted his attention.

“Why does this feel so natural?” The boy asked.

“Everyone dies,” the angel replied, his grey wings spread, stretched and curled up again behind his back.

“Well yes, but honestly, this is my first time,” he replied then changed subjects, “Why are there so many afterlives?”

“That’s like asking why there are so many different occupations for people to follow on earth,” the angel tartly replied.

“Sorry. I just didn’t know,” the boy answered, “Which one should I choose?”

“Ours, of course.”

“Why ‘of course’? How am I supposed to know which one is the best?”

“Because when asking the representative of an afterlife which afterlife is best, they’re obviously going to reply by promoting their own,” the angel scoffed back.

“Sorry,” the boy apologized, “I guess I will pick yours. There’s no way of telling which one is really the best anyways.” With this comment, the boy took the angel’s outstretched hand and they walked through the door into the light.