Sunsets and Breadcrumbs

Death sat comfortably on the park bench overlooking the bay. The sun was rapidly on its way down, and filling the sky with dazzling reds and oranges. The clouds in particular were a treat.

He inhaled deeply through the hole in his skull that a nose would have once rested on, theoretically.  The spring air was crisp but not cold. A lovely day, all around. He reached into his enormous tattered cloak and produced a loaf of stale bread. His bony fingers quickly crumbling it, he spread a lovely meal for the birds out at his feet.

People came and went past him, not noticing in the slightest the bulky ancient form of Death. Some made mention of the mysterious cold spot around the bench, but most people didn't even notice that.

It was tremendously peaceful.

Eventually the sun fell below the horizon, and Death ran out of bread. The birds fluttered away, and the stars came out.

He sighed contentedly, and stood. Brushing the crumbs off his cloak and grabbing his scythe off the bench beside him a thought occurred that tumbled about inside his skull as he lumbered away.

I don't get enough days off.

Be Good

"Hey! Who's there!? Get lost!" Max shouted at the darkness. There was a shape there, something beside the closet. Something big. "Hey!"

The shape didn't move. It didn't make a sound. Max started to wonder if he was seeing things. He checked on Dan in the bed. Still sleeping. Hm. He turned his attention back to the shape.

"You!" he shouted again. He slipped out of bed, and crept slowly across the floor, trying to look as big as he could. There was definitely something there.

The floor was cold. Colder than it should be on a summer night. Max looked over his shoulder at Dan, still asleep in the bed. How are you not hearing this?

"Hey!" He shouted one more time.

The bulky shape finally moved. Slowly, cautiously, as if to show no malice, a hand reached up and pulled back a hood slightly. Max stared up into the skull that was the face of Death. Neither of them moved for a time.

"Oh." Said Max, at last.

"Yes." Replied Death, a strange soothing quality accompanied his chilling voice. There was a finality to it, but in that finality was comfort.

Max looked back at the bed, and only now noticed his body next to Dan's sleeping form. And it broke his heart.

He strode over, and quietly looked at the two forms in the bed.

He turned his head back to Death, and with watery eyes and a cracking voice asked the question he wasn't sure he wanted answered.

"Will he be o..okay?"

Death paused. He stepped over to stand next to Max. Death's bulky black frame dwarfed the two bodies in the bed. A boy and his dog.

"Not right away." He replied, with a soft rumble. "Not for a while, I'm afraid. But..." He looked down into Max's wet eyes. "But someday, he will be."

Silence hung between the two.

"Will I get to see him again?" Max asked, afraid of the answer.

"Perhaps. If he's a good boy."

Max nodded slowly.

"He is. He will be."

"I'm glad." Death said comfortingly.

Death stood patiently while Max said goodbye to his best friend. When he had finished, Death was somehow waiting by the door.

He cast one last glance at Dan, and smiled a big goofy smile. Be good.

And then he padded out the door with Death, his four paws making not a sound on the cold floor.

Contractual Misconceptions

The glaring lights of the hospital were somehow softened. It was a nice change.

Edgar sat up, and swung his legs off the hospital bed for the first time in a long time. It felt nice. He stretched out fully, and nothing cracked or spasmed. He hadn't gotten a good stretch like that in decades. Again, it was nice.

He stretched every muscle, turned every joint, wiggled every toe. Everything felt... fine. Nice.

But eventually he ran out of body. And he had to address the elephant in the room. Without looking at him, he spoke.

"You look about like I'd expected."

"Thanks." came the icy rumble of Death, waiting patiently by the door. His enormous black frame draped in dark robes looked too massive to even fit in the door, but nevertheless here he was. "I try to fit in, change with the times." He plucked at an imaginary hair on his scythe, to keep busy.

"Oh yeah?" Edgar raised an eyebrow. "Guess you haven't had to change much recently, huh?"

"Oh, almost constantly." Death grinned back, an expression that was lost on Edgar, to whose perspective Death appeared to be constantly grinning due to his skull face. "As recently as the seventies I was wearing these big ridiculous antlers."

"Back when everyone had afro's and bell bottoms?" Edgar asked incredulously.

"Oh goodness no," intoned Death, "The actual seventies. The year seventy." Death chuckled, a rolling, thunderous sound that filled the room with shudders of cold.

"Ha Ha..." Edgar laughed politely.

There was a brief silence while Death reminisced about his old antlers.

Edgar looked down at his body, lying peacefully on the hospital bed that he had been confined to for some time. It made him smile. He wasn't sure why.  He stood up, and cleared his throat.

"Ahem."

Death startled slightly, falling out of his reverie.

"My apologies. I get nostalgic sometimes, Edgar."

"No worries, it happens to us all."

Death's skeletal hand snaked out of his robes, and opened the door beside him. "Ready to go then?"

Edgar looked back at what had been his body, and a pleasant smile again alighted his face.

"Yes. I think so." He said, as he marched out the door with Death close behind, gracefully slipping his impossibly large frame through the small door. The two marched quietly down the hospital corridor as it began to stretch away into something eternal and unknowable.

"So if you don't mind, can I ask you a question?" Edgar looked up at Death.

Death didn't look down, but replied in a polite fashion he had honed over millenia.

"There are many answers coming to you very shortly, and I'd hate to ruin the surprise." His icy voice answered in a paradoxically warm manner.

"No no, not that... I was just curious about you. What's it like, having a job where you, you know... kill people?" Edgar asked with increasing akwardness.

Death sighed and stopped in his tracks. He turned, and the empty sockets of his ancient skull took in the fullness of Edgar. The infinite blackness bored into his soul, and Edgar fidgeted quietly.

"Why does everyone think that I kill people?" Death muttered, exasperated.

Good Soup

"I forgive you, child." The old man was pouring soup into a bowl in his little cave home. He didn't look at the boy as he spoke, simply poured with care.

The boy stood worriedly at the mouth of the cave, unsure of what was happening and afraid of this strange new person.

The old man poured a second bowl of soup, and set it on the ground between himself and the boy before retreating to a bedroll on the other side of the fire to eat his own soup.

The boy fidgeted at the entrance.

"Those were not your parents that left you here, were they?"  the man called out over the fire.

Silence answered his question, and the boy continued to fidget. Wondering if he should flee. Would he be able to find his way back? Did he... did he want to go back. After what he'd done.

"No. Not parents. But family, I think." The old man slurped loudly. "Mmm. Good soup."

The boy's eyes slid to the soup. He was hungry, after all. It took a lot out of him when he... when that happened. But he still didn't trust the old man.

There was quiet in the cave, save for the crackling of the fire. The old man finished his soup, and set the bowl beside him but he did not rise.

"When did it begin, if I may ask at least that?" His voice was kind.

The boy, still standing at the entrance, shuffled back and forth for a moment before deciding to answer.

"Not long ago." He spoke with shame.

"Hm." Came the ambivalent reply.

The two looked at each other.

The boy decided he wanted soup after all.

"Your family thinks I can fix you. Make you normal again." Came the voice from across the fire.

The boy slurped his soup slowly, and stared across the fire. Could he?

"But I can't."

Oh.

"You are not broken, child. I cannot fix what is not broken. Tame, perhaps. But that is up to you really."

The boy stopped eating.

"The Magic has chosen you as a conduit. It will fill you until you burst, or until you learn to control it."

He put down the bowl.

"But you are a boy, so control will not come easy. And so I say, I forgive you."

The child looked through the flickering flames at the wrinkled face of the sage.

"What for?"

"For what you cannot forgive yourself. For what you will do to me."

The boy was confused, and cocked his head.

"Know that when you lash out someday, in anger, and your magic unmakes me... I forgive you."

The old man's face was soft, and full of honesty. The boy was shocked.

"And so do your parents."

Not Yet

"Oh no. What"

"Are you"

"Doing here?" Asked the three rabbits, as they hopped into a protective line in front of Death. The three of them were moving constantly, like slippery balls of fur sliding over each other. Death had tried to count their ears a few times, to make sure there were in fact only three rabbits. It gave him headaches.

"Nothing professional, I assure you." He intoned, the cold rumble of his voice doing little to calm the nerves of the three.

They continued to slip and slide and hop over each other nervously, eyeballing the bulky skeletal form of Death suspiciously. He rested his colossal scythe against the wall, and leaned his frame up next to it, shrugging innocently.

The rabbits spread out a little, one of them splitting its attention back to the task at hand.

The light of the hospital delivery room was a little glaring, and a little sterile, but it was of little interest to anyone in the room.  More important things were happening at that very moment.

The three rabbits broke their protective formation and got back to work. They flowed over the woman like a river of fluff and attention, whispering encouragements and advice, pressing ever so gently here and there, nudging and moving. All this, unseen in the slightest by anyone in the room.

Anyone save Death of course.

And he did also notice that at all times, one herbivorous eye was fixed on him. Trading owners with frequency to be sure, but the three were clearly somewhat suspicious.

But distracted as they were, they were the best at what they do. And before long, a doctor was holding up a healthy newborn infant, and presenting it to a very happy, very exhausted mother, proclaiming it a girl.

The rabbits slipped down and slid across the floor, sliding and hopping all over each other almost faster than the eye could follow. They came to a relative stop at Death's feet.

"You can't"

"Have her"

"Yet." They stated, matter of factly.

Death smiled, which he was prone to do more so than people realized. Not even the rabbits could tell.

He turned his gaze from the three to the newborn child, and gazed with wonder and joy.

"No, not yet." He replied gladly. This gave the rabbits pause, and in that second Death was almost certain there were only three ears between them.

"Then why"

"Did you"

"Come?" They asked, hopping and slipping and sliding again.

Death waited for a time, enjoying watching the new life surrounded by love. Eventually he checked his watch and sighed, grabbing his scythe from the wall.

"To remember." He said over his shoulder as he departed into the chilling mists.

Hard Days

The crib was very small, especially framed against the dark bulk of Death beside it. His black mass shuffled quietly up to the ratty thing, ancient when the child's parents were new and not cared for overly well.

A problem shared with the child, mused Death.

The room grew cold around the dark, skull faced spectre. The few pictures frosted, the carpet became stiff. But Death smiled, and reached in to the crib with warm hands.

It was a trick he saved for only very special occasions.

As he raised the child up to his face, it giggled. Death smiled widely, an act that would be imperceptible to most creatures in the universe, but somehow the very young had a nack for noticing.

And Death liked that very much.

He cradled the child to his shoulder, and began to bounce gently up and down, lulling the thing back to sleep. It was not long before the giggling stopped and the heavy breathing of sleep returned. He wrapped the child in the folds of his tattered cloak.

Death moved to the door, and grabbed his heavy scythe with his free hand, still cradling the infant lovingly.

"Time to go, little one." He whispered to the warm bundle on his shoulder, expertly cradled. "This is not your story."

And with that, the two departed, passing through the screaming match in the kitchen while Death cooed softly to the child to sleep.

Part-Time Devil

The circle lay around his feet, filled with pentagrams and protective symbols from a dozen different creeds and belief systems.

Unfortunately, one of them actually worked.

Sid sighed, and straightened his tie. Another day.

Around him stood a half dozen startled looking adults. One had a hefty tome open, and wore a look of surprised excitement. Summoner, check. Another held a knife, and a small ammount of blood dripped from a self-inflicted wound on her thumb.

Why the thumb? It's always the thumb, Sid thought. Ridiculous spot to cut, it's so full of nerves. And then every time you try to use your thumb it's going to split, so it'll take forever to heal. Just... just nick your forearm or something. Put a little cut in your shoulder.

Cultists are weird.

The rest of the people around him were armed with an array of things from crosses to actual weapons. One of them had some kind of shiny assault weapon. Okay then.

"So... what can I do for you fine people?" Sid asked. He pulled his too-long sleeves up. You'd think management would have given him a suit that actually fits. Put it on the list for quarterly review. File it away.

They shuffled in silence. Clearly they hadn't actually thought it would work.

"I believe one of you was interested in selling a soul?" Sid raised an eyebrow, looking from person to person.

The one with the cut thumb raised her hand.

"Okay, great. I'm glad to hear that. I'm here to facilitate your transaction. So what benefit package are you looking to get in exchange?" Sid pulled a file out from his inside jacket pocket, and started flipping through it.

"Uhh... I... Uhm, no..." She stammered, and then composed herself. "No we've summoned you to put an end to your wickedness, Devil!" Her face hardened, and the people around her snapped back to reality. Gun guy pointed his shiny weapon at Sid's face.

Unimpressed, Sid shrugged.

"I mean, I guess if it would make you feel better? But not much of a sale. I'm just looking out for you on this one."

"No, I mean, I'm not going to sell my soul to... unmake you. We're just going to do it. We have you trapped!" She indicated the symbols on the ground, before realizing she was still bleeding. She stuck her thumb in her mouth and scowled.

"Well, you see, according to the spell you used to summon me for the deal, any hostile action you take against me is considered a pre-emptive trade agreement. I know. Old testament stuff. Fine print. It sucks. Technically just for the threat I can bind your soul, but like I said I'm trying to work out the best deal for you here. So why don't we look at some options. How do you like power? Or are you more of a money gal?" Sid pulled a few pamphlets out and waved them in her direction, not leaving the circle.

"I'm not trusting you, you're the Devil!" She recoiled.

Sid cocked his head, and looked at a few of the summoners, a look of mild confusion on his face.

"Oh no no. Did you think...? Oh I'm so sorry, no. You guys are pretty together, but you just don't rate that high. I'm A devil. Not The Devil. I'm a lower case devil. Sorry." He shrugged, helplessly.

"But, the spell..."

"Like I said, fine print. Sorry. It's not your fault, not a lot of people's cuneiform is up to snuff these days." Sid waggled the pamphlets again. "But, you know, since I'm here..."

There was a stunned silence.

"Actually, now that I think about it I might be able to swing perfect comprehension of cunieform for a soul... never been done before but I mean the paperwork is  all pretty standard so..."

Gun guy fired once, putting a hole clean through Sid's ill-fitting suitjacket, and subsequently his heart. He looked down at the hole, pulling his jacket forward. He turned his gaze to gun guy and sighed.

"Come on man, I still have two payments on this thing."

"... What?"

"The uniform isn't included. They ding you for everything. I mean... you're working for Hell. You can't expect them to be nice about it."

"You work for Hell?"

"Well yeah, but you know. Only part time." Sid shrugged.

There was stunned silence.

"So, about that soul..."

"Hit him again Greg." Thumb girl said around her bleeding thumb.

"Wait!" Sid shouted, but was drowned out by a barrage of gunfire.




On the trip back to the Eternal Pits, Sid played with the many new holes on his uniform angrily.

This was so not worth eleven dollars an hour.

Pour Juliette

«Que pensez-vous que cela signifie?» demanda Shane, assis avec son dos contre le mur, une lampe de poche illuminant le message décoré devant lui.

«Je pense qu'il est assez explicite.» répondit Carl, se tenant non loin de lui.

« Oui, je suppose. Mais il y a des subtilités.»

«Je ne suis pas si sûr.»

Shane continua à regarder le message. Carl ouvrit une ration de survie et commença à la grignoter, laissant vagabonder ses pensées. Le carrelage froid brillait à la lumière de la lampe de poche de Shane. Les supports en ruine autour d'eux étaient envahis par la mousse.

«Peut-être que non. Peut-être est-ce l’idée. Aucune subtilité, rien qui ne puisse être mal interprété.»

«Hum. Je ne sais pas si beaucoup de réflexion y a été consacré.» répondit Carl, la bouche pleine.

Les deux restèrent silencieux pendant un moment, en regardant pensivement les mots de leur prophète sur le mur en face d'eux.

Carl termina sa barre, et remit avec soin l’emballage dans sa boîte. Quelques minutes passèrent encore, et il se racla la gorge.

«Il va bientôt faire nuit Shane.»

«Oh, tu as raison. J’imagine que oui. Désolé Carl.» Shane secoua la tête, et se leva, souriant d'un air penaud.

«J’étais juste perdu dans mes pensées. »

«Oublie ça. Rentrons simplement avant la tombée de la nuit. »

«Convenu.» Il sourit et mit son sac sur le dos. Les deux se frayèrent un chemin à travers un trou dans le plafond dégoulinant de vignes, laissant les paroles du prophète dans la grotte.
Derrière eux, un message écrit à la hâte disparut dans l'obscurité.

«Essaye d'être gentil» était affiché sur le mur du métro.

Sand

The beach sand is hot underfoot. I spread my toes and let it sift between them, warming the gaps.

It’s nice.

I haven’t really thought about it much for the last few months. Bigger things, I guess. But I’m glad to feel it now, glad to notice. I wriggle my toes again.

A smile spreads my cracked lips.

I wave again to the little boat coming my way. No real reason to, they know I’m here. It’s just nice to wave. To wave at someone.

They wave back.

It’s nice.

I sit down in the warm sand, and try to momorize how nice it feels. It’ll be good to have a nice memory when I’m gone.

I pick up a handful of sand and let it play through my fingers.

It’s nice.

It’s nice, but I’ve had enough sand. Enough for a lifetime.

And when my rescuers arrive, I’m more than done with the nice warm sand.

Afloat

Blue fades into black as the first twinkling stars make their appearance. The air is crisp but not cold. The city below me glitters in anticipation of the coming night.

"It's tonight, isn't it?" I ask him. I haven't seen his face yet, but I know he's behind me. Waiting. Lurking.

"It doesn't have to be." His voice chills. I wrap my coat around me close, suddenly acutely aware of the dropping temperature.

The conversation stalls as we both watch the lights flicker from the earth to the sky.

"Have you ever been swimming?" I ask without turning my head.

He pauses to consider before replying.

"Not really."

"Some people swim for fun. It's great." I start to explain. I don't know why, really. Of all people, he is the last one I really need to explain this to. "But some people are swimming just to stay afloat. Some people are swimming in the ocean, surrounded by hungry sharks."

"Mm." He intones, to let me know he's listening. It's very thoughtful.

"And at first it's easy to keep swimming. To keep treading water, keep your head above. To look for land. You swim as hard as you can in one direction, to try and find it. Because you have the energy, and you're doing it for them. To see them again."  My mind drifts to them, and I apologize again. "But eventually you get tired. And things are so hard. So very hard. And you start to drift, and your head bobs below the water. But a shark bumps you, and you startle and you swim hard. Harder than ever before. You're going to find that land. You keep up, above the water. You put so much energy into just... staying above water."

He moves up beside me. He's watching the city like I am. Watching the lights wink out and appear in the stars above. Poetry.

"But you know you can't do it forever. You have to find somewhere to rest. And maybe you find a piece of driftwood, to let you relax for a little while." I play with the ring on my finger absent mindedly. "But you know you're still lost. Lost at sea, surrounded by sharks. And then you let your attention wander and all of a sudden your driftwood is gone. And you're alone, in the water, struggling to stay afloat."

He's motionless. Listening entirely.

"So this time you try another direction. You won't give up. You swim and you swim and everything hurts. You still don't find anything. The water is cold and horrible. Your body is a wreck. You can barely move. You can barely keep your head above water. You know that the drowning is terrible beyond compare. That it will be the most painful experience of your life. That everything about it is wrong."

He leans against the railing. I get the impression he's heard this story before. Not that he's tired of hearing it but... He wants to help, I think. It's sad.

"But eventually... you run out of energy. You can't take it any more. You're too exhausted."

I step on the ledge. He doesn't move to stop me.

"And it's not easy. Not at all. But the alternative is so much harder, and so much more painful. You can't hurt yourself any more. So you have to stop swimming."

I hear him open his mouth, as if to say something. He closes it again, wordlessly.

I look at his bony face for the first time. It's not what I expected.

We stare at each other for a while, and the city continues to wink out as the sky fills.

"I'm glad you came." I say earnestly, as I step off the edge.

His bony hands pluck me gently from my fall just before it comes to its conclusion. He cradles me softly, and somehow I can see compassion on his skull.

"I am sorry." He says to me, the ancient rumble gone from his cold voice as we ascend. And I know that he is.