The Blue Sky

In the Ur-times, before Grass learned to Grow and before Lightning Bug learned to Glow, there was Blue.

Blue was the youngest of ten billion children of Light, and was often forgotten about. This did not bother Blue, because it gave her time to learn. Blue loved to watch the other colours as they swirled and danced around each other, leaving impressions of themselves on things. She giggled merrily when Green tripped and smeared herself all over Grass. Grass was upset at first, but decided he liked the colour and that he would keep it.

She so enjoyed watching the other colours, and the curious Things that they would run into all day an night, that she was often missing for days at a time. She would climb atop a Rock, or into the beards and hair of Trees while they argued back and forth, and watch as the world blossomed around her in a growing symphony.

The higher Blue climbed, the more she could see with her keen eyes. And so she climbed higher and higher each day. She climbed to the tallest tree, and was unsatisfied (much to Redwood's dismay). She climbed to the top of the bluffs, but still this was not enough. She climbed, with his permission and a promise to be very careful, to the top of Mountain. And as she stood at the summit of his highest peak she sighed.

For it was not high enough.

She could see the Forest, and the Plains, the Ocean and the Beach. She could see all the siblings she had in all these wonderful places, she could see Ferret and Fox, Joy and The Numbness of Cold. She could see so much. But she knew there was more.

Sky was passing overhead at just that time and nearly knocked her off the head of Mountain.

"I am terribly sorry, Blue. I did not expect to see you up so high." He said, picking her up and dusting her off.

Blue smiled back. And that smile changed, with a clever thought, into a sly grin.

"Not to worry Sky, I am fine. How are you?"

"I am well, though very busy. So much to keep track of." And she saw that Sky had the same keen eyes as her.

"Of course, of course. If only you had some help." She ventured.

"If only." Said Sky, already craning his head to keep count of all the Things in the Plains below.

"I wonder, Sky," She said, "Have you ever considered being Blue?"

Sky stopped counting for a moment, and cocked his head. Sky had never been a colour before. And as he looked down at all the colours mixing and playing on the ground below, far away from Sky, he could not think of a more wonderful colour than Blue.

So Sky smiled at Blue, and nodded.

"I had not, but I cannot imagine a better Colour."

So Blue held out her hand, and Sky took it and together they ascended up and up and up. And Blue could see the whole world laid out before her. And she loved it very very much.

And Mountain was profoundly relieved to not have two Things standing on his head anymore.

The Sadness

It was not, in any way, her fault. The car had experienced a freak fault, and skidded out into a two-decade old tree that brought it to an abrupt halt. She had done everything in her power to prevent the crash. The impact had been uncharacteristically cruel. All three occupants of the vehicle had died instantly.

The odds were so astronomically bad that Death had first thought the situation reeked of divine influence. Zeus or Shiva, perhaps. But he could turn up no evidence on his inspection, so had to carry on.

He made a mental note to alert IA, and hoped they did their job this time.

Death stood now a respectful distance from the wreck, waiting patiently for the attention of the driver.

She was transfixed by the crumpled wreck before her, and the three bodies inside. She knelt, unmoving, staring in at the children in the back seat.

There were no tears. She was well beyond them, Death knew. It was not uncharacteristic. He wanted to reach out and provide some comfort, but he was severely limited on what he could tell her and his hand was skeletal. Not often overly comforting to the recently dead.

Slowly, she turned her head to see him.  Her lips worked out a sound with great effort.

"Why?"

Death stood motionless. He considered the question with care. Considered the platitudes humans share with each other in this situation. Considered the truth, as he knew it, incomplete and untrustworthy as it was. He settled on the only thing he could think that was not a complete lie, and not completely horrible.

He stepped forward, and took a knee beside her. Even so, he towered high above her.

"It is life." He shrugged, helplessly. It was not comforting, it was not helpful. But it was as close to the truth as he could manage.

The least he could do for her.

She was not satisfied.

The two of them stared at the car in silence, and time flowed around them. Death would not rush her.

People came. The bodies disappeared, the car vanished. The broken tree was removed. The grass grew, shrank, grew again.

Death and the woman sat.

Occasionally, the man would appear in the window and look down at the two of them mournfully.

Finally, she spoke. Her voice was cracked and dry.

"I would like to leave." She said, without looking at Death. He nodded in response, and held out his bony hand.

She did not look to it, but put her hand in its cold fingers. Death tried to take her away from the great sadness.

But she brought the Sadness with her, and Death realized that there was no escape from this Sadness. His eyes darkened, and he squared his shoulders to heft the load of her Sadness on to his.

He set his jaw, and resolved to have words with the Gods.

What Is Best

In the Ur-times, before Cinnamon found its Spice and before Blade learned its point, the Trees were talking.

"Sister Willow, what is best?"

"Brother Beech, letting long roots drink deep from the foundations of the world is best. Surely you know this." She creaked slowly.

Brother Beech swayed disagreeingly in the wind.

"No, no. To block the sun, and make the ground dark and covered in your leaves, this is best." Brother Beech shifted his swayings and nodded to himself.

"Harrumph." Came the low grumble from Brother Oak. "You youths are fools." it continued. "To grow, and be grand and strong, these are what is best."

Sister Redwood giggled at this, and her branches shuddered with the laughter. "You think yourself strong, Brother Oak? Look at my tremendous height, and ask yourself if you have the strength to grow this far from the ground." Her branches smiled wrly down at her siblings, and she cast her gaze off into the distance, already moving away from the distant conversation.

Brother Oak grunted grumpily.

The Cedar Twins had thus far been quiet, but one of them broke their silence to gain the attention of their siblings.

"Um."

The Trees continued to bicker back and forth, not having noticed the Cedar's interjection.

So Cedar waited. And waited. And waited. Until it could wait no more.

"Um." It said again, during a lull in the conversation. The rest of the trees stopped, and turned to the quiet tree. The Twins did not say much, and they were very young. The Trees looked down at the Cedar Twin that spoke, and waited expectantly.

"Yes, Tree?" Asked Beech at last.

"My brother Cedar felt that what was best in life was to help others. By being shade like Brother Beech or by holding Earth together like Sister Willow. Or by giving of oneself so that others might be happy." The little Tree said.

The Trees thought about this for some time. They were pleased by the notion. Sister Redwood looked down at the congregation below her and shook her leaves confusedly.

"Where is your twin, Brother Cedar?" She asked.

Brother Cedar looked at the stump where his twin had sat, and smiled.

"He is enjoying what is best in life." He said, and looked into the distance at a brand new, beautiful Cedar plank home.

The Flood

Death pulled the keys to his little country home out of his robes, and opened his door.

It squeaked.

He glared at the hinges. He had just oiled them. He opened and closed the door a few times, listening to the squeak.

He sighed and closed the door.

Death rested his enormous scythe on the hat rack, and pulled back his hood to reveal his pearl white skull. He stared for a moment at the scythe.

Today he had taken a young man from his family. The man had died quite peacefully, surrounded by his loved ones. They wept as he was taken away to whatever awaits him.

The man had been very understanding, and very amiable.

Death's bony hand clenched into a fist.

He shouldn't have had to be.

His fingers relaxed and he took a deep breath, exhaled as a stream of cold air. He tried to exhale the memory.

It almost worked.

Death cast another angry glance over his shoulder at the hinges of his front door, and made his way to the kitchen.

He carefully selected his ingredients from the refrigerator, laying them out on the counter just so. And with practiced precision he crafted himself a fine sandwich. Just as he was putting the last ingredient away, the phone rang.

His head snapped up, and his eyes locked on the ancient black phone in the corner of the kitchen. The two brass bells on the wall unit rang sharply, pulsing again and again. He glared at the brass trimmed handle, willing it to stop.

But it didn't.

It would never stop.

There was always another job.

Death finally arose, and closed his refrigerator. He collected his sandwich and moved to the phone, defeated. A bony hand reached out, but paused before reaching the handle.

He remembered his day.

He closed his hand, but did not let it fall.

He had had a long day.

His hand fell to his side, and he stepped past the ringing black phone into the living room. The bells clanged sharply over and over. He placed his sandwich on the little side table adjacent to his favourite chair. He stepped to the bookshelf, and ran his hand along a stack of thin cardboard containers.

Something stopped his hand, and he slipped his bone fingers into the stack, and pulled out one sleeve in particular. He held it up and inspected it, nodding.

He slid the record out of its holder, and placed it gingerly onto his record player. It began to play, and he picked up his headphones.

Death sat in his red leather chair, trying to adjust his headphones to fit on his skull. They had fit last time, so they should fit this time he thought to himself. But at the same time he knew that that never seemed to be true.

After a bit of fidgeting, he got them to sit right, and the music flowed into him like a river into a drought. He closed the black pits that were his eyes, and let the sound flood out the memories, and the bells of the phone.

Death enjoyed his sandwich, and his music, and letting the phone ring and ring and ring.

A Thousand Thousand

"I fell." Dan told the massive shape of Death, towering above him.

"I know." Death nodded slowly.

Dan picked himself up and dusted himself off. He looked up at the cliff face that he had just tumbled down, and rested his eyes on the body that he left behind.

"A shame." he sighed. "I had a date for Friday."

"A shame." Death nodded in agreement.

The two of them stood surveying the scene for a time.

"You know it's not what I expected." Dan finally said, placing his hands on his hips.

Death liked this part.

"I was led to believe there would be a bright light, a tunnel, voices, the whole deal." Dan waved his hands about, dramatically. "But it's sort of just... you." He shrugged.

"Terribly sorry to dissappoint." Death shrugged back.

"Oh, goodness no. Sorry, that's not what I meant." Dan waved his arms in denial. "It's quite nice. Relaxing. I was just told that the experience would be a bit more... pyrotechnic."

"And who told you that?" Death asked, raising what would have been his eyebrows were his face not a skull.

"Hm. People who... weren't dead after all, I suppose." Dan smiled.

Death retuned the smile, and shrugged.

"Well, I think..." Dan started. "I think..." He continued, and another realization dawned on him mid sentence. "I think you've heard this speech before, haven't you?"

Death did not at first reply.

"You've heard a hundred, a thousand people have the exact same complaint, the exact same story, haven't you?" And Dan was mortified at how bored Death must be of... people.

Death plucked some imaginary cat hair of his scythe, absent mindedly, before finally replying.

"Yes. A thousand thousand times."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bore you." Dan was earnestly upset. "It's just... new to me, I suppose."

Death cocked his head. He looked down at his charge, without a hint of condescension.

"The day I tire of hearing what people have to tell me," He intoned, "Is the day I will begin my well-deserved retirement."

He looked up into Death's gaze, slightly befuddled.

"You really want to hear what I have to say?"

Death nodded.

"Even though not a single thing is likely to be new."

Death again nodded his cowled head.

"Oh." Daniel said, surprised.

Death turned away towards their destination, and held out a bony hand.

"Now... you were going to tell me about your lovely dog Max."

He had not. But still, Daniel smiled with the joy of youth, and told Death all about how he had had the absolute best childhood pet.

And Death liked that story very much.

Rehab

Armin looked up in horror at himself, as he, the other he, raised the pistol to his face.  Armin stared down the barrel of the gun with panicked fear. He knew what happened next. He rembered.

But there was more to his fear. A rich milieux of terrors swept about in his mind. His wife, how would she survive? Their child, who would be there to help raise it with him gone? His family, his friends, all cut off from him in an instant.

He opened his mouth to speak, but the memory of silence caught in his throat and he found he could not. He could only gaze into the black hole that was the barrel of a pistol held in the other him's hand.

"Sorry mate. Nothing personal." He said. The other he. The he that he used to be. And just as Armin remembered, he pulled the trigger while he said one final word.

"Business."

And there was a roar, and a flash, and an instant pain, and everything that he had worked for and loved was gone in an instant.

When he opened his eyes he was back in the room. The white room, with the table and two chairs. He was sitting in one of them when he remembered that he never had a wife. Or a child.

Or many friends, for that matter.

And it dawned on him. Not his friends. Not his wife.

HIS friends. HIS wife. The man that he had killed, in cold blood, eight years ago. Without a thought. Without a care. Because it wasn't personal.

It was just business.

But it had been personal to him.

Lucifer, the Morningstar, appeared before Armin with ruined wings and a sad expression. He took a seat quietly.

"Incarceration is not punishment. It is a rehabilitation." He placed a clipboard gently on the table. "You are here to learn. To see why you did what you did, and to see how it hurt. How it hurt those around you. How it hurt yourself."

Armin wanted to speak, to protest. To shout that it was all a dream. But even he could see it was too vivid. To real.

Too deserved.

"There is no fast track here, Armin. No shortcuts. When you are ready, you will know. You will see. And we will wish you well." Lucifer smiled at him a patient smile. Grandfatherly, was the word that came to Armin.

"But that's not today." And he rose from his chair,tattered wings trailing as he made for the door. As he left, Lucifer turned once more and nodded knowingly to Armin.

"Good luck."

And he closed the door, and Armin was elsewhen, staring down a different barrel.

Language

There was a young woman that Death went to meet once. She had just passed away unexpectedly, but unlike many people she was pleased to see Death.

"Oh, you've come!" She said excitedly, which caught Death somewhat off guard.

"I have." He replied, letting the ancient timbre of his voice rumble the very walls with authority.

"So there is an afterlife." She smiled excitedly.

Death let this hang in the air for a moment, looking down at her with the black pits of his skull, letting his bone fingers tense and relax on the scythe.

"Perhaps there is only me." He rumbled.

She mulled this around in her head for a moment, before deciding.

"No, I don't think so. I think you're here to take me to the real afterlife."

Death frowned at her. He wasn't so much upset with her, as perplexed. He'd encountered souls like this before, but... not often. And they always caught him off guard.

"What makes you say that." He asked as nonchalantly as he could.

She grinned coyly. "Because you left the door open. So, where are we going?" She hopped to her feet excitedly.

Death looked back. He had indeed left the door open. It wasn't often he had the luxury of leaving doors ajar, so he took it when he could. When there would be no-one around to notice. It saved a little time.

But not this time.

"I cannot say." He rumbled back.

"Oh." She replied, a little dissapointed. "Well, I appreciate you coming to get me nonetheless." She nodded surely.

Death cocked his head confusedly.

"Well, you didn't have to come." She explained. "I'm dead. I'm sure I have all the time in the world to find my way to the next. But you came all this way to make sure little old me made it safe and sound to the afterlife." She smiled politely.

Death scowled at her. She couldn't really tell. His face was a skull.

She continued to smile back.

Eventually, and much to his surprise, Death's scowl broke into a smile of his own. He offered his hand to her, and she took it without hesitation.

"Come on then, let's find out if you're right." He indicated to the open door with his scythe.

The two of them left hand in hand, and the infinite stretched out before them as they walked.

"You remind me of my Grandpa." She said, and as they walked she leaned her head against his arm lovingly.

And Death was very pleased by this. He placed his skeletal hand on hers while they strode into infinity.

"He was a big softie too." She continued. And then a smile crept across her face. "When he wasn't being scary as fu..."

"Language." Death cut her off, and she laughed as the world slipped away around them.

Restricted Items

Clarice hung upside down in the tree, her parachute lines tangled inextricably about her as she swung back and forth. The dappled light through the canopy was dazzling and beautiful, and almost enough to take her mind off the dreadful realization that she had just passed away.

She swung lazily back and forth, looking up past her feet to the shimmering sun as it worked its way through the many thick branches that had interrupted her trip to the earth. She could see the one in particular that had clipped her head and ended it all.

That branch was a jerk.

But through it all she found herself to be quite serene. Skydiving was not an entirely safe passtime, and she had always known this was a possibility. Everything was accounted for.

And besides, the rush had been worth it.

"Well, that's enough of that I think." She said, looking around for her patient companion.

"After you." Came the low rumbled reply from Death, who was busy enjoying the careful dance of a butterfly that had taken interest in his skeletal hand.

"Hm." Clarice grunted, still trapped by her parachute equipment. She wriggled for a moment more, before clearing her throat to gain Death's attention.

Startled, he shook his skull and looked up at her.

"If you wouldn't mind?" She did her best to indicate the ropes above her.

"Of course, of course." Death replied, apologetically. He swung his enormous scythe in a broad sweeping arc, slicing through the bonds as though they were butter, and she tumbled to the ground more gently than possible. Death helped her to her feet as the ropes fell away.

"Handy." She said, indicating the colossal tool.

"Oh, it has its uses." Death smiled to her, and offered his hand. She took it and they walked out of the forest.

"Any idea where I can get one?" She asked.

No Bars

"Listen you," The man said, prodding Death in the chest with a finger angrily, "I can't be dead. I have a contract. Do you know who I am?"

"I do." Death answered dully.

"Then you know that I'm a busy man. A popular man." The man was spinning around angrily, gesticulating with both hands. "A powerful man! So when I say I want you out of my house, I mean now!" And he gestured sternly to the door.

"We'll be leaving shortly." Death intoned, his frigid voice frosting the windows slightly with his words.

The man frowned at Death. He placed his hands on his hips.

He paced back and forth before the towering image of the eternal force of Death itself.

He turned his back on Death.

When he turned back, Death was still patiently waiting.

"Well go on. Scat!" He gestured at the black mass of cloaks and bones. He pulled out his phone to call his agent, but found he had no signal. Frustrated, he began walking around the home, holding his phone up above his head. "It's no use. I'm not going."

"I understand the desire to remain." Death said, solemnly. And with that, he lumbered his enormous form to the ground, and sat. He crossed his bony legs before him, and began to pick at the cheap carpet with his skeletal fingers. "There is much yet to see, and taste, and smell. To experience." He pulled a fragment of lint from the fibres of the carpet, and held its exquisite fuzziness between his bone fingers. The sensation was divine to him. "It is a shame to miss it."

The man ceased walking about his home, and poked his head back into the living room, where Death sat. Even sitting on the floor, Death was as tall as a man. His scythe lay next to him.

"I was going to get that dreadful carpet replaced. Came with the house. They had cats."

"I like cats." Death said, absent mindedly.

"I don't like their fur." The man said blandly. He moved into the room slowly, watching Death as he ran his hands across the carpet, enjoying the sensation of cheap fibre and old dust.

He watched as Death sat on the floor, and let his senses drink in the world around him. The cheap, the dirty, the expensive, the sublime, each was equal in the black pits that were the eyes of Death. To experience was to enjoy.

The man had never been to a farm. The thought had not occurred to him until this very moment, and somehow... he regretted it.

"So there's nothing you can do for me, huh?" He asked Death.

Death stopped moving his hands across the carpet suddenly. He turned to face the man beside him.

"There is one thing. When you are ready." His cold voice chilled the air, but was paradoxically kind in the ears of the man.

"You're sure."

"I'm sure."

"What if I sign your scythe for you?"

"I'd rather you didn't."

The man deflated. His options had run out. His phone was useless. His fame was no good. What then did he have?

"All right. Let's get it over with then." He moved towards the door.

Death stood, propping himself up with his scythe. Some of his bones creaked and popped as he did, and he realized he hadn't sat down like that in a really very long time. A note for the future. He moved towards the door, and extended a hand for the man to take.

As they joined hands, the door opened. While they exited, the man looked one last time into his home, and saw his life in things. Most of them were very nice things. Some of them were not so much so.

And he tried to hold on to the memories of each, as they passed into the veil.

I Did A Bad Thing

The soldier stared down at his rifle on the ground, and spoke without shifting his gaze to Death.

"I did a bad thing." He said softly.

"I know." Death replied, not moving. He stood a respectful distance away, his black bulk patiently waiting for the soldier.

"I knew better." Still his gaze was fixed on the weapon he had wielded a moment before.

"I know." Death again spoke.

After a silence in which the soldier felt an eternity of turmoil pass, he looked up at the skeletal face of Death itself.

"I'm sorry." He said, earnestly. And Death could see, with the black pits that held in them the despair of mankind he had in place of eyes, that the soldier spoke truly. He stepped forward, his enormous scythe acting like a walking stick, so he could stand just before the soldier, towering above him oppressively.

A skeletal arm slid out of the bulky mass of cloaks, and rested on the soldier's shoulder compassionately.

"I know." Said Death, and the two of them strode across the battlefield, into the forever night.