A sequel to Death, which I wrote in December \: D/
Death II
Once upon a time, in a village surrounded by mist, night and day, there lived a writer who was struggling with writer's block. He'd had writer's block for so long, in fact, that he hadn't completed a story in years. The bank had taken his house away because he hadn't been able to pay back the $4 on his credit card he'd used to buy a cheeseburger, because banks don't know or care that humans have to feed themselves.
So our hero was homeless. He had nothing except some notebooks, four pencils, and the faux office space a wealthy friend - who was the boss there - had given to him out of sympathy. His cubicle was cluttered with unfinished manuscripts and stories that publishers had rejected flat-out.
One day, after everyone who worked nine-to-five had left, our hero had a nervous breakdown of nuclear proportions. He started screaming and writhing all over his desk and tearing at his hair. Then he grabbed his hat and got his coat and he ran into the street. Sprawling out on the frosty ground, he screamed for Death to come and take him from this life of misery.
To his horror, Death appeared and agreed to do that. He was just about to swing his scythe when the writer screamed, "No! Wait! Wait!" Death was annoyed. He was an elegant reaper who wore a deep purple cloak and had a white snake coiled around his shoulders, and he liked to do things with precision. "Then what do you want?" asked Death. His face was shadowed by his hood, and his hands were skeletal and grey.
"Well, um," gulped the writer. "Could you give me an idea for a good story?"
Death was a creative reaper. "Why not just write something about how you met me?"
"That's a great idea!" said the writer, and there and then he sat and wrote everything the reader has just read.
Once he had finished, he got up and hugged Death to thank him. The moment Death embraced him, however, the writer's eyes rolled back in his head and he went as stiff as a board. A moment later they had both vanished.
The writer was never seen in the village again.
Death II
Once upon a time, in a village surrounded by mist, night and day, there lived a writer who was struggling with writer's block. He'd had writer's block for so long, in fact, that he hadn't completed a story in years. The bank had taken his house away because he hadn't been able to pay back the $4 on his credit card he'd used to buy a cheeseburger, because banks don't know or care that humans have to feed themselves.
So our hero was homeless. He had nothing except some notebooks, four pencils, and the faux office space a wealthy friend - who was the boss there - had given to him out of sympathy. His cubicle was cluttered with unfinished manuscripts and stories that publishers had rejected flat-out.
One day, after everyone who worked nine-to-five had left, our hero had a nervous breakdown of nuclear proportions. He started screaming and writhing all over his desk and tearing at his hair. Then he grabbed his hat and got his coat and he ran into the street. Sprawling out on the frosty ground, he screamed for Death to come and take him from this life of misery.
To his horror, Death appeared and agreed to do that. He was just about to swing his scythe when the writer screamed, "No! Wait! Wait!" Death was annoyed. He was an elegant reaper who wore a deep purple cloak and had a white snake coiled around his shoulders, and he liked to do things with precision. "Then what do you want?" asked Death. His face was shadowed by his hood, and his hands were skeletal and grey.
"Well, um," gulped the writer. "Could you give me an idea for a good story?"
Death was a creative reaper. "Why not just write something about how you met me?"
"That's a great idea!" said the writer, and there and then he sat and wrote everything the reader has just read.
Once he had finished, he got up and hugged Death to thank him. The moment Death embraced him, however, the writer's eyes rolled back in his head and he went as stiff as a board. A moment later they had both vanished.
The writer was never seen in the village again.
