Part II

Chapter 2

It was a clam and sunny Thursday afternoon on Motton Way. Death particularly liked these types of days. Sipping Chambord on the deck with the lofty sounds of light string music drifting through the house and out into the yard. The entire property at 34 Motton was surprisingly un-menacing in appearance, considering its eternal inhabitant.

Death picked his plot back in the late 19^th century, after Ohio had been mostly domesticated, yet still retained a “new world” mentality. He had made the mistake of following John Smith in the original voyage some years earlier. While it turned out to be convenient, seeing as how he had quite a bit of work to do there at the time, he found the whole ordeal to be mind bogglingly boring and too rugged for his taste. He had not liked the early years of civilization at all. Plagues and pesitlence were not his style and neither was working triple overtime. Not too proud of it, during the black plague and yellow fever eras, he would just take whole houses just to save time. And now that it seemed the world had cooled off for a while, Death could finally kick his feet up and take a slight breather from time to time.

Considering who he was, the local wildlife and critter-folk had no problem skittering right up onto his porch and chasing each other around the worn and weather beaten wood. The squirrels especially liked Death’s company during the summer and fall months. Even with no need for food, he always liked to keep some around because, hell, the man still had taste buds. And with that food were his guilty pleasure, peanuts, and who else just happens to like giant handfuls of peanuts? Well, everyone really, but our bushy tailed friends in particular until he would smile and nudge the remaining nuts off the porch and into the garden for them to fight over in the flowers, chittering away for the remnants of the bountiful feast.

With his deck now clear, Death kicked up his feet in his home made rocking chair and reached into his pocket. He pulled out an uncommonly old linen pouch and an ivory pipe. He pinched a portion of tobacco from his pouch and pushed it into the opening of the pipe. He shifted in his seat and pulled out a dry and dusty matchbox, which incredibly has not lost a match in the hundred or so years since he bought it. One of the perks of being immortal, he supposed.

Striking the match, it seemed to light perfectly even. Lifting it to the opening, he dropped the match inside and took a series of short puffs and leaned back, exhaling. Death liked this particular area to settle down in. Secluded and far away from anyone he might meet off the job. As much as he liked people, he hated even more when he had to be the one to take them away. The explanation was the hardest part. Oh, hey we have to take a trip. It’s a surprise, just trust me. A fun afternoon does not that make. It was especially nice in this day and age where everything can be automated, he could have as little human interaction as possible.

As irony would have it though, someone just happened to be walking up his lonesome gravel way.

Spire

Jonathan Rydell awoke from what felt similar to a hibernation like state. As he slowly stood up he rubbed his eyes and gazed to the distance. He inhaled heavily and ran his fingers through his hair. Jonathan took five steps forward and looked down towards the dirt. Had he taken another, the plummet of countless feet would have been a rather unpleasant start to the day. When his eyes adjusted to the dull brown light, faint through a film of dust, to could see the landscape around him. Plateaus. Thousands upon thousands of mesas and cliffs as far as he could see. All of them were empty and bare as the dust swirled aimlessly. A small noise behind him made Jonathan turn around.

A tall, slender man in a black suit stood behind him sharing the space on the stone spire. Jonathan was not startled by the sudden appearance, rather somewhat comforted by the sudden company. They stood facing each other for some time before one of them spoke. The lanky stranger was first to break the silence.

“What brings you here Jonathan?”

The man spoke with a deep and somber voice, the kind where one could only find a glimmer of emotion if they so wished to dig far enough.

“Well…I-“ he started.

“You seem tense, John” he was interrupted, “tense and confused.”

“No,” John sighed, “I don’t know what I feel anymore.”

“Well now,” the man chuckled, “why do you think you are here. Better yet, what exactly do you think here is?”

“The creative spirit never dies” John said solemnly.

The man nodded his head and looked down with a smirk.

“This is true, John. Yes, true. However,” he sat on a green park bench that had found its way to where they were, “you have yet to answer my question.”

Jonathan again ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. This was John. Not the shell housing the soul of Jonathan Rydell, but this. The landscape, the man, the dust, this. John lifted his head towards the nearest mesa. Where was just dust and stone not ten minutes prior, there was now a tree.

“It has been awhile, John.” The man said.

“Yeah,” he replied, “yeah I know.”

“Now why is that, John.” The man never looked down, but always straight ahead, as a blind man might. Yet the thing that John found most unsettling was the fact that what he said sounded more like a statement than a question.

“Don’t do this to me. You know what it is”

“Yes,” the man smiled, “I just like hearing you say it.”

“Its because,” John started, “because it doesn’t work for me.”

The man lit a cigarette. “That hurts John. I refuse to believe you would rather have things this way.”

“And why do you say that” John spoke without moving from the edge of the cliff.

“I say this, John, because you realize that you hate this. You hate seeing me here only. You hate never coming here. I mean look at this place, John.” He stood and paced around the bench. “You remember the day when this wasteland was beautiful. It was bright. Fantastic. You,” he exhaled a stream of smoke, “were at home.

“And now, look,” he put a hand on Johns shoulder, “Well wait now, there seems to be some life left.” He motioned towards the lone tree which had since sprouted sparse and pathetic leaves.

Jonathan chuckled. “What do you expect. They were only doing what they thought was best.”

“Really now. What they thought was best?”

“Please, don’t go through this again,”

“Oh no, John, I think we need to. Because you know as well as I, that as soon as we’re done here, you’ll dwell on it for maybe what? A week at most? And then you’ll forget this ever happened.”

“Look, I mean its not-“

“Not your fault, right? Really now, John. Who’s fault is it now?”

“I never wanted it to-“

“Answer me this John,” he said as he sat back down, “You’re a grown man. You have been for some time. Your parents. They’re the ones who didn’t like this amazing place. It didn’t fit into what they wanted for you. The white picket fence had no room for a mind with some wiggle room.”

This made John slightly irritated. “Now listen. They did everything they could for me. The least I could do was try to make them proud.”

“John, those people. The trust fund brigade. They’ll never be proud of anyone. They think of themselves. Their money. Their power. Their good name. It’s a vicious cycle that makes me sick. You wouldn’t know anything about that though would you, John?”

John suddenly became incredibly somber. “That’s low and you know it.”

“You know very well I’m not saying anything that you haven’t thought yourself. The person you turned into is the exact thing you wanted to get away from all those years ago. You hated it. The self righteous martini sippers that somehow found their way to your house. They never liked you.”

“They grew to like me.”

“After,” he sighed, “this, you, us, had been repressed and cast aside.”

“You were never gone forever.”

“It might as well have been. Ten years. That’s how long. Look at me. Look around. Both have wasted away to almost nothing.”

“But why now? Why did this come back now?”

The man laughed in such a way it chilled Jonathan to the bone. “Therapy and medication only go so far, John. They don’t work miracles. Besides. I never went anywhere. I was here the whole time, just not where you were living.”

“That doesn’t answer much.” John said raising himself to his full height again.

“As well it shouldn’t. I don’t need to answer your questions if you already know the answer to them to begin with. Its been so long you lived without yourself you don’t know how to feel anymore. You hate this corner life you backed yourself into so much, that, well, we’re back to square one.”

“But this cant happen now. I’m not a child anymore. I have responsibilities. I have a family, a child that depends on me. I can’t be chasing my wild dreams I had back in the day you know.” With a sigh Jonathan Rydell sat himself on the bench.

“Do these,” he waved his cigarette around, creating a string of smoke, “responsibilities, include anything for your benefit?”

“Its not that simple anymore.”

The man stood up with amazing speed, and put his arm around John. “Look at this John,” he pointed towards the tree with two fingers clamped around his still burning cigarette, “In ten years, would you believe this is the only thing I’ve seen grow? Sure I’ve seen your kid grow up and hell man I’ll admit he’s turning into a fine young man but this, this tree. This pathetic excuse for foliage on top of a dirt mound, is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. I mean really man, do you remember when this place was paradise? You used to sit in church and hear of heaven and laugh to yourself. All the people yelling and singing about the Garden of Eden, and you had one. All for yourself. You dreamt. Dreamt of things, of times and lands unknown. This was your playground and it was infinite.”

A single tear fell down Johns face. “Everyone has to grow up.”

“But they don’t have to fall apart.”

“I understand why they did it. You remember school. I didn’t talk to anyone. I found no need for people, especially my age. They were scared.”

“Oh sure. Scared of the quiet one. The one who wrote in his notebook instead of party in high school.”

“Look man, it wasn’t that simple. They didn’t like that I wasn’t normal for my age.”

“Who defines normal, John, you know,” he took a drag, “I would love to see where those kids who found joy in no part of their shallow lives but alcohol. And this, all before they turned eighteen.”

“It’s not fair, I know.”

“John, I don’t want to argue anymore. Look. The fact that I actually see you again is a small glimmer of hope. So I’ll take what I can get. But look here.” He pointed John to the tree again. “I want you to see this.” The man flicked the cigarette at the tree and it burst into flames. “John. I want you to repeat after me. I get up at six. Drive to work. Spend my nine to five. I drive home. I take my children to soccer. I eat dinner with people that don’t know the real me. Lather, rinse, and repeat. John, this next part is very important. Say it with me, I am happy and things are better now.”

Johns tear fell from his face. “I am-“

A shrill buzzing grabbed Johns attention. He opened his eyes again and saw a small glowing. It was six in the morning.

I really wish I could tell you

what was wrong with me. Let's start from the ground up. Three years ago, everything was fine, almost perfect. How in three years I've come to barely recognize myself, I have no idea. I've still got my boys at work and the clan but other than that I'm what I never wanted to be. In light of the hole left two years and some odd months ago, I've become addicted to working. I'm taking 15 or 16 credit hours a semester, a full school load but still I insist on working borderline 40 hours a week with a makeshift weekend on Monday and Tuesday. I love the feeling that I'm worth something to someone because I'm good at what I do. Probably since I lost that feeling with someone else, I try to find it though labor. The money has been great, I haven't had to worry about my accounts slipping in the past couple months but at what cost? I still get to see the guys occasionally, pretty much whenever I can but there comes times, inevitably, when they will want to spend time with their someone. Where does that leave me? Back at work? By myself? Walking the streets at all hours of the early morning trying to drown out my own thought with an iPod? For awhile it was running through it. With no goal in mind, maybe three times a day, just running. Sadly that was taken from me too. So it was back to work. One of the only places I feel part of something anymore. School is automated and monotonous, when I'm home I'm either sleeping or doing homework so where does that leave time for much else. I thought that hard work would give me an awesome sense of accomplishment and value but it seems like its leaving me more and more empty every day seeing what I used to have. Every time I think I might find something to replace that part of myself she walked away with, it dies in front of me. It moves away, it wasn't feeling it or it leaves me waiting, just blankly staring at the salad bar trying to convince myself to stay another couple minutes. Just another couple minutes.

Oh, hello.

that time again, eh?
i suppose so
my, you're bright
you don't seem to be too dull yourself
couldn't do it without you
you're too kind
time to shine, kiddo
no pun intended, i hope
none at all
the majesty is lost through the looking glass
the owl hears nothing.

Gotta trust me, here.

you just missed it
no, i swear it just happened
the most amazing event in lifes short span
i can't wait to show you
i can't wait to show everyone
is everyone here?
okay, here goes
no, don't leave i swear i just did it
maybe you have to not watch
please

This is based off a dream I had last night that I'm sure many people have had. I was able to fly, it was awesome and completely real. I could do it on command with a simple trick that for the life of me I can't remember. Hopping my car over traffic, flying to the tropics, just flying. Then suddenly I just couldn't do it anymore. For no apparent reason. People that had seen me do it and were amazed suddenly had no further use for me. The novelty had worn off.

Where to from here, boss?

Okay so this is potentially the first chapter/prologue for a novel I've been mulling over for years. In a nutshell, Death hates his job and quits. People stop dying and we follow how it affects different people. A doctor who gets too full of himself, as well as a couple others. Then when he resumes his position, the effects of the reinstated death take over, slowly going back to normal, the events seeming insignificant

Theodore Steadman had fallen asleep in his chair again. It was becoming a more and more regular thing with his old age. He had been getting in the habit of turning off all the lights and feeding the dog before he sat down to watch the evening news because nothing would get his attention again until the morning.

The lights from the television pulsed like a florescent heart in the dark room, the politicians and newscasters speaking to the comatose man drooling on his worn flannel robe, which he seemed to live in these days. A sharp crack from an overzealous commercial snapped Ted out of his slumber, cutting him off mid snore. The light from the TV blinded him as he attempted to regain his bearings. As he looked around, he contemplated just going back to sleep. There was never a point to do anything productive anymore since Mary passed away.

Mary and Theodore had been married for almost forty years before the accident. Mary had been driving in the country one Sunday afternoon, like she and Teddy would always do. Only this time, he had opted to stay home and work in the garden. This bit of irony always stung a bit. In his grief he would always tell himself the elderly stereotype killed her and kept him from being killed. Aimless driving and the goddamn garden. To further the icing on this delicious cake of irony, neither their classic Cadillac nor the once ornate and extensive garden had been touched since. He even avoided the southern bay window as to never even have to look at either ever again.

With a groan he pushed himself up and out of his chair and puttered towards the kitchen. Stepping over their, his, old as dirt poodle, he reached for a glass and ran the tap. Brown water spat out across the sink for a few seconds until the stream ran clean. He filled the glass and stared at it. He had never been the philosophical type but he found himself wondering what the point was. Some innate and carnal, maybe even cosmic urge caused him to get this, but why? In fact, why anything, really. Standing there for a few seconds, he finally decided to stop being a nancy and drink the damn thing. Downing it in one tip, he walked back into the living room.

The nightly news program had changed to even later programmed infomercial cavalry. He sat and watched Billy Mayes yell into the camera at a presumed audience about the stain fighting power of whatever his new cleaning bit was. Mary had been all about that miracle cleaner bullshit, he thought. That though drove him back to the kitchen to grab his bottle of whiskey before returning to his chair. Maybe Jack will make him and Billy get along a little better, he though chuckling to himself. Poor bastard. Annoying as all hell, but a damn good salesman. Of all the recent celebrities to die, he didn’t deserve to be one of them. The poodle had since made its way from the kitchen to go where the proverbial action was, as little as it may be and laid down next to the armchair.

“What do you think, girl? Would you buy this?” he asked.

The dog sat and only looked up blankly.

“He’s good, I’ll give him that. Could probably sell a refrigerator to the Eskimos or matches in Hell. Wonder if he tried to talk his way out when the big guy himself showed up to take him away. I’d have liked to see that conversation.”

“Oh he did certainly try, but he’s not the first and as sure as I’m sitting here, won’t be the last. And I hope not too, keeps things interesting.” A voice to his right drew out.

“Speak of the Devil,” Theodore said as he took a swig from the bottle.

“No,” the man chuckled, “he’s a different department entirely. Him and Mr. Clouds-and-Harps got their own deal.”

Theodore could see out of the corner of his vision the man talking. An elderly gentleman, like himself but with the outward aura that he just always looked like that. He wore a wool knit sweater vest and business casual khaki’s and those God-awful Croc’s.

“You don’t look like I’d expected,” he laughed, causing the bottle to bounce, “just walk off a cruise or something?”

“Close, actually, I was spending the winter Florida. With all the retired people moving south, it’s just easier for me to live closer to work, you understand.” He said leaning closer with his elbows on his knees.

“Oh, of course I expect traffic is a killer for a, well whatever you are.” Ted said as he handed the bottle to the stranger.

“Well,” he coughed on the whiskey, “technically speaking, you would call me an angel, but as you can see, I haven’t been trying to keep up with that appearance. I feel it over glamorizes what I do, you know?”

“I thought the whole robe and scythe thing worked well for you?” he inquired.

The mans cough turned into a laughing wheeze. “You know, the funny thing is, I never once wore a black robe.” He outstretched his arms. “Look at me, white as a ghost! No pun intended of course. What’s the point in wearing something where if people see me first, all they see is a floating head? Not the image I wanted to go for. As for the scythe, best I can figure was this wheat farmer back in the dark ages who thought he could stay alive by taking off on foot dropped his scythe. Now I wasn’t really in the mood to chase this bastard down to I picked it up and just chucked it at him, Babe Ruth style. Knocked him out and I dragged him away. Simple as that. He must be spreading it around that I had it to begin with to save the embarrassment or something, who knows.”

Theodore contemplated in his haze telling him Ruth wasn’t a pitcher but decided against it, lest he take a Bambino swing at him. He coughed to break the silence. “So do you remember everyone you take in?”

“For the most part, I try my best I really do.” He said with his tone dropping near somber. “I’m not the ethereal being I once could have been so I was cursed with empathy.” He smiled slightly, “Its like the life of an old time traveling tradesman. The classic salesman before everything turned to codes and numbers, phone calls and e-mails, you sold with yourself. You put your all into it and made them believe in what you were selling. You formed a bond with that person, if even for a moment.”

“Except in your case, its free.” He laughed.

The stranger snorted. “Exactly, and they don’t have a choice, they’re taking it whether they like it or not.”

After a pause, Theodore spoke. “So what about this one? Is it special or just another day on the job?”

He took a sip. “Well I can say not many have been so courteous. And this is a damn fine bottle. So yeah, I suppose I’ll remember this little chat.” He said putting the bottle between them again.

“Well while we’re here, do you like it? Just off the record?” Ted asked.

“Like it?” he paused, “I don’t see how anyone would. I find no joy in telling people their time is up. The ones like you are the hardest too. The kickers and screamers annoy me to the point where I’m glad to get out of there.” He laughed.

“Ones like me?”

“The people who are perfectly content with their fate. It always kind of creeped me out. But with how society bombards people with death from an early age, it really isn’t a surprise anymore.” He paused and chuckled again. “Like now, you were more concerned with the way I was dressed. That’s what the Style network does to people. Death comes a’knocking and you comment on his shoes.”

The wind whipped outside, waking the dog who let out a low groan.

“So this is it I guess.” Ted sighed.

Death exhaled slowly. “Yeah, probably about time to get going.”

The bottle was almost empty.

Ted looked at it solemnly before downing the rest in one gulp. He looked back up at the man. “What’s it like?”

He looked at him apologetically, head titled slightly aside. “I wish I could tell you. Like a bad salesman, I have no idea what I’m selling.”

Theodore smiled. “I’ll have to let you know sometime.”

Death smiled back, “I look forward to it.”

Theodore snapped upright. “Wait!” he looked around him frantically before finding the TV remote. “Don’t want to run the electric bill.”

Death laughed, “Frugal old bastard.”

With Theodore on the chair, the dog slept soundly through the night.

Behemoth

herald!
to lay waste to the end
the bitter beginning
the subjects needn't concern
samsara is slaves to us all
expense of athanasia
the will to maintain
alas
it is only a couple more miles