Heya! Just a thing I wrote for school but the teachers made a bit of a huff so here ya go! Basically, World War 2 has ended. A German general is fighting himself. Should he run into hiding away from the Allied soldiers, or stand up to his foes and imprisonment? The conflict of a dying man. The title was "Strange screams of death with terrible accents echoed through the house". The style and very loose storyline links to Mark Zusaks-"The Book Theif" though characters and story is of my own plot bunnies!

Please read and comment! I'll love you and reply forever!


The Last Human Stranger

A single droplet of rain fell from a murky sky. The sun scratched the heavy, grey clouds, aching to peep through the dark at the damaged earth below. Yet the clouds were unyielding. They watched the droplet as it fell. The clouds were always watching.

The clouds had seen the mansion that grew out of the earth. They had seen the ivy that slithered and snaked up the sagging bricks. They had seen the thick, red drapes that hid its secrets from the outside world. The roof sagged under the pressure of it all. They had seen the fences. Heard the screams. Felt the tears. The clouds were always watching.

Nature was angry. Strange screams of death with terrible accents, echoed through the house. The wind found cracks in the strong walls. Iron balls of rain battered the battlements, threatening to raise it to the ground. Their fell purpose to rip the place apart.

Far above, the raindrop was still falling.

An eye peered through the heavy curtains and gazed at nature's war on his home. A tired eye, red with worry. How much had this eye seen? What horrors had it witnessed? These thoughts closed the eye and the curtain fell, shielding the tired eye to the pain outside.

Franz Wichser stood alone. Like him, the tall room was in shadow. Shelves towered and groaned under the weight of books. Letters and papers cloaked the large oak desk that sat proud in front of the window. Pictures plastered the wall. Men saluting. And a dark figure, no different to you or me, yet with a sense of both great power and fear, glowered down from an ornate frame above a doorway. Voices poured out of an old radio although Franz wasn't listening. He was thinking.

Far above, the raindrop was still falling.

Franz traced the footsteps etched into the worn brown carpet. Back and forth. Back and forth. "What do I do?" he wondered silently. "What have I done?" But no answer came to him. He peered out the window once more. A chink of light cut the room like a shard of glass. It sliced the desk, illuminating the title of a book. "Die Letzte Menschliche Fremde" The Last Human Stranger. Franz gazed through the storm upon the fences beneath him. It all seemed so pointless now.

As Franz grew weaker, nature grew stronger. The clouds became angrier, hurtling more and more rain onto the already crumbling mansion. The wind found new holes on the houses defences. It wanted to wash away all remnants of the death that had enveloped the earth for so long.

Through natures attack, the radio was still crying its message.

"The war is over. Germany has surrendered. The English are coming. The war is over. Die Futhrer is dead. The war is over….."

A strong fist slammed the desk. The harsh noise shook the ice cold room, sending shivers through everything in it. Franz looked down at the fist. Slowly it unclenched, revealing an old, wrinkled hand. Franz gazed at it in wonder. Where did the time go?

An image flashed in front of his eyes. An old shrivelled man in striped pyjamas. Grey skin stretched over his bones. Eyes so deep and dark that when you met his gaze you seemed to fall into them. And his hands. They were worn leather. Tough from labour yet soft and caring. Each crevice and scar had a story just waiting to be told. They were a man's hands. Human hands. Yet he, Franz Wichser, had stopped them and cut those stories short.

Far above, the raindrop was still falling.

And the clouds were still watching.

Should he run or should he stay? Questions flooded Franz's mind, drowning him, suffocating him. He tried to think clearly but it felt like swimming against the tide. No matter how hard he swam he just drifted further and further out. Away from home, away from safety. The wrinkled hand grasped the desk and lungs gulped for air. He pushed a dark strand of hair from his eyes. The dark figure in the frame glowered down on him, peering into his very soul. Franz turned his back to it.

Questions attacked him like the iron balls of rain. Should he stay? Allow himself to be captured by the enemy? Or should he run? Hide. Flee from his actions? The stooped man rubbed his dark eyes in confusion. Crossing to the window he gazed up at the clouds, searching praying for an answer.

And the clouds gazed back.

"What had the Jews done when we came for them?" Franz looked down at the fences beneath him. The place of death and horror that stood in his shadow. Most had fled, hid from their fate as their houses were ravaged, possessions stolen and their families torn apart. Yet some, some strong brave people had stood up to fate.

Franz cast his mind back. To the beginning of this pointless war. He remembered a woman. So small in stature yet so grand in courage. Her limp brown hair fell about her shoulders as a curtain and the grey dress was like a cloud on her tiny frame. A pair of innocent eyes gleamed in the dim light of the basement where they hid. A child. No more than five years old cowered in terror behind its shield. All the guns in the world could not have moved that woman from where she stood. An impenetrable barrier, protecting the young life from death. There was a fire that burned in the eyes of that woman that Franz had never witnessed before. Nor since.

Franz sighed. Deep inside, he had always known his choice. You could run and run, but death will always follow. The puffy, red eyes looked slowly at the portrait above the door. The powerful portrait, of a man with a moustache. The eyes looked away. Terrified the portrait would see his decision. Franz turned off the voices, still crying from the radio. The heavy black coat lifted from the old oak desk and Franz fled. His heart ached with regret. Tears trickled down his cheek. "I'm sorry" he whispered. For the pain he had caused, for his weakness, for everything. The door closed on the tall, shadowed room. And Franz fled. The last human stranger.

Far above, the clouds watched as a huddled figure left his home for the last time. He seemed so small. The raindrop, that tiny raindrop that had come so far, fell onto his whiskered cheek. He looked up. Eyes can tell many stories. These eyes told one of confusion, sadness and fear. Fear of both the past and future. For you cannot flee death. It creeps on you like smoke. No matter where you hide you cannot cower from your fate. For Death is like a cloud.

And the clouds are always watching.

There you go! A bit odd but we couldn't write a horror... Its up to your imagination where Franz's path takes him now! I couldnt kill him (suicide) though that was the origional idea. Please comment! Everything helps! Im always looking for was to improve and I'll read any of your creations and reply! I always reply! thank you! COMMENT LE DO THOIL! =)