Perhaps this word slam business was a mistake.

 I wrote this in a bar for a word slam/poetry event. I was going to read it out, but realised that it kinda sounded like a suicide note and decided to keep quiet.

 

I’m graying in the good life

and I want a better way to die

Breathing is boring

and the best things are worth ignoring

I’m laughing all the way into the ground

 

I took the hypocritic oath

and refused the revolution

Old habits die stupid, don’t you know

the edges are nearly worn away

 

Well-fed and threadbare

Who am I to complain

Nameless and blameless it shall read

so remember me on the side of the road

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Maybe if I ignore it, 2017 will go away.

Hello. It has been a while since the last post, I know. It’s busy work wasting time, believe me. Anyway, here’s a little something I wrote for a class I took last year. It still needs work, and isn’t all that subtle, but like I said, it’s not like I get paid. I also couldn’t think of a good title. Those things are hard.

Hector was fairly certain that he wasn’t crazy, but it seemed that something always disagreed with him. The device on his wrist was the main culprit, frequently telling him that he was indeed crazy. It had started early today. ‘Hector Hemmingway!’ it flashed in lurid green. ‘You’re crazy if you pass up on this!’. It then proceeded to show him an advertisement for televisions. Hector already had a television. In fact, he had six of them. In his mind, this raised the uncomfortable question of just who exactly was watching who. It was a cold April morning, and Hector huddled into his coat as he hurried down a city street. He was leaving forever, he had decided. Once out of the city, he would go south, to somewhere quiet and peaceful where green was the colour of grass, and not of neon. Still, the device on his wrist chattered at him. He pressed angrily at it, although he knew that it was impossible to turn it off. At birth, everyone was given a device that was attached to the wrist, and would flash brightly with offers at various points during the day. These could never be removed or turned off. As a consolation, you did eventually get to choose a colour. Hector’s was blue. He had grown to hate the colour. They only displayed advertisements, and it was mandatory that one of these offers be accepted, regardless if one had a need for the product or not.

Before he left the city, he had one last thing to do. Hector slipped into an alley, and when he was sure that no one was watching, ripped the device from his wrist. This was a terrible crime. The morning crowds rushed past, no one noticing that a cardinal sin had just been committed in their presence. The removal of your device meant disappearing into a rehabilitation facility, and they surely would be coming for him now.

’You’re crazy!’ the device implored, as it lay on the ground. Hector poked at it with his toe, curious about the object that for so long had dictated his life. It presented a compelling second opinion to be sure, and Hector knew that the world had just become a lot more dangerous. But, he just couldn’t continue with this life. As he cautiously ducked out of the alley and back into the flow of people on the street, he reflected that although his recent conclusion there was something terribly wrong with the world had not come easily, it was nonetheless an important place to have arrived at. He was smart enough to know that it was a dangerous opinion to have, and so had initially decided to ignore it, doing his best to bury it amongst the minutiae of daily life. Despite his efforts, he had found it increasingly difficult to escape from. It had progressed in an infuriatingly resolute manner, and Hector’s inability to disregard it had bothered him greatly. The thought begun small and difficult to grasp, only flickering briefly before fading away, like a dying bulb. As time went on, it grew steadily until it began to feel as if he was waking from a dream. It was now present when he woke in the morning, and as he walked down the street, bursting into his thoughts with increasing frequency throughout the day. It had even begun to enter his dreams, where nightmares of being an increasingly faded photocopy woke him gasping for breath. Impossible to placate, and yet equally impossible to act upon; it was the worst kind of idea. But now, with the idea formed and actionable, he finally had purpose. Lost in thought, Hector bumped solidly into a passer-by. This was the kind of slip-up that could end an escape before it began, and Hector’s bare wrist was now a giveaway. Panicked, Hector began to apologise repeatedly, but the man was focused on his wrist, and didn’t glance up. Instead, he turned to the woman next to him.

‘Look honey!’ he said, pointing. ‘Half-price vacuum cleaners, now we can have one for each room!’

‘Good idea, I’ll get some too!’ the woman replied, tapping furiously.

The clocks struck over to midday, and it was time for the mandatory buy. As the clocks chimed, everyone stopped in place and looked hungrily to their various devices, eagerly awaiting the new round of offers. Hector joined in with the routine for what he hoped was the last time, his face adopting the accepted expression of eager anticipation. It was safer that way. Cars stopped in the streets, their drivers now occupied with more important tasks. This caused more than few accidents, but no one seemed to mind. A large Cadillac collided with a wall, spilling its driver onto the hood. He smiled groggily as he accepted an offer for discounted helmets. Activity resumed as the daily buy ended, and the cars began moving again, inching their way to their various destinations through a maze of steel and tinted windows.

Hector was close to the station now. All he had to do was purchase a ticket, and he would be on his way. He saw a familiar face approaching, and ducked into his jacket. It was his neighbour, Davidson. He was genial, enthusiastic man who always wanted to discuss his latest purchases with Hector. Short, rotund and blessed with the unpleasant skill of being able to sneak up on people, he frequently cornered Hector every morning, wherever he may be. His round face would flush brightly whenever he discussed whatever products he had purchased recently, and had a habit of bouncing excitedly on his feet, like a child would do. Hector hated him intensely.  He briefly considered turning around, but Davidson had spotted him immediately, and was homing in on him like a beige missile.

‘Hector!’ Davidson called as he pushed through the crowd. Too late now. Hector turned, and with some effort adopted a smile.

‘Hello Davidson. Cold morning, isn’t it?’ Hector said. He never quite knew why he always said more than was necessary. Was being rude to a man he hated such a terrible thing? No one seemed to be rude anymore. Everyone greeted each other with smiles as plastic as the products they bought, and had grown so used to it that the alternative seemed unthinkable.

‘Oh yes, deathly cold’ Davidson said. ‘Glad I bought that crate of surplus thermals during the last weekly special.’

Hector hoped he wouldn’t continue.

‘Sure, some of them have a bit of a chemical smell,’ Davidson continued. ‘But the price was right, and it gave us a chance to use the seven surplus boxes of air freshener we bought. Personally, I think new car is a fine thing to smell like.’

Hector glanced longingly at the entrance the station.

‘Say, you don’t look well.’ Davidson said, adopting a look of concern. ‘Are you buying enough?’ He placed a hand on Hector’s shoulder. Hector looked at the pink, chubby hand resting on his coat and felt a throbbing begin to grow behind his eyes.

‘Yes, I’m buying as much I should. I meet the quota every week.’

‘Well it can’t hurt to go above, can it? Me and the wife go above every week, just to be safe. I hear that they recently caught a bunch of people who hadn’t been spending for weeks. Can you believe it? Weeks!’

‘You don’t say? Shocking.’ Hector hoped he sounded an appropriate level of appalled.

‘So, what was your latest buy?’ Davidson asked.

‘Well, it was …’

The silence dragged out as Hector struggled to think of an answer. It was unthinkable that someone would not remember their last purchase, but Hector had frozen, unable to think as the possible answers became hopelessly jumbled in his head. To be foiled by the most innocuous of questions seemed a strangely ironic way for him to be caught.

‘You don’t remember your last buy?’ Davidson said, now suspicious. ‘Are you sure you’re feeling alright?’

Hector began to back away slowly. His pulse thumped in his ears as he edged towards the station. If he could just make it inside, everything would be fine.

‘Your wrist …’ Davidson had noticed Hector’s bare wrist. It was only a matter of time now. Davidson’s mouth opened in mute terror, and he pointed at Hector.

‘Saver!’ he screamed shrilly. ‘You’re a Saver!’

Everyone in the immediate vicinity froze. To be labelled a Saver, one who did not spend, was to be branded a dangerous deviant, and those who were labelled as such frequently disappeared, only to emerge sometime later as drooling shadows of what they used to be. A woman screamed. He turned to run, but a crowd had formed, blocking his path. ‘Saver! Saver!’ the crowd screamed. A rock struck him in the head, drawing blood. It would only take moments for them to tear him apart.

With a shove, Hector forced his way through the crowd, and sprinted into the station. His only chance was to hope he could board a train, and escape the city before his identity was circulated. As he barged through the doors of the station, a black van shrieked to a halt behind him. Men clad in black uniforms, their faces hidden behind masks, emerged in precise and co-ordinated movements. Armed with truncheons, they were the feared Green Boots, named for the striking green colour of their footwear. They were responsible for keeping order, and ensuring that people met their daily buy quota. Few ever encountered them and returned. With surprising speed, they pursued Hector into the station. Hector gasped for breath as he willed his legs to go faster, his sight set on the nearest train, which was preparing to depart. If he could somehow get onto the train before the Green Boots reached him, he would be safe. The rhythmic thump of boots grew louder behind him. Nearly at the train, Hector put the last of his energy into one final burst. All those exercise machines he had bought were perhaps not such a waste after all. Suddenly, a shiny black shoe emerged from the crowd, and tripped Hector in one swift motion. He crashed to the tiles of the station floor, only a few feet from the train that was to be his salvation. Dazed and gasping for breath, Hector rolled onto his back and stared at the station ceiling. A black-suited figure stood over him, and a curiously friendly face leaned in.

‘Hello, Hector. Let’s have a talk, shall we?’

Some months later, Hector sat on a park bench on an overcast day. The season had turned, and now the leaves floated to the ground around him, blown along the concrete on a chill breeze. An offer flashed up on his wrist. Hector smiled as he accepted it, a scar prominent on his forehead. ‘You’re crazy if you miss this!’ the device said.

Heartbreak (Cont)

I know this isn’t a lot to update with, but I am writing more, and trying to post it as it comes out. I really hope there aren’t too many errors, but I suppose not much can be expected from drafts. I also gave the city a name. Yay?

His heart began to slow from it careening rhythm, and his vision faded from the brilliant luminosity of before. Whatever process had taken place within him, was now slowing down and returning to its previous state. Muscles tingled as their fluid supply returned to baseline. Refocusing, Erys scanned the dirtied paper containing the hastily scribbled information which had lead him to this place. It didn’t answer many questions, and had cost a years worth of high-quality oil, but it had proved correct so far, and that was good enough. Information about the secretive inner workings of the city were hard to come by, as most were simply too frightened of the Gearmen and their brown cells to offer anything of use, the prospect of vanishing during the night buying silence more effectively than money ever could. Others plainly didn’t know anything at all, and didn’t care. They worked their allotted jobs, plied by cheap ethanol and empty-headed joy of the numerous entertainment complexes, and didn’t question the workings of the world that surrounded them. Erys couldn’t really blame them. If he could have forgotten all of this, the mechanical eyes, the piercing metal spikes, he would have done so, and lived out his life searching the bottom of ethanol botles, blearily accomplishing what little he could. But the thought of Alisia would remain. The irreplaceable loss bound to the hollow in his chest, the absence of that most precious, could not be forgotten.

He smoothed the paper against his coat, eyes straining through the muted light. ‘REACH COMPARTMENT 762 AT CYCLE CHANGE. AVOID PATROLS. LOOK FOR ENTRY. ONE CHANCE.’ Messy and borderline illegible, the information had come from someone who moved between the six cities, managing to survive in the harsh wastelands that surrounded Vaporveil. Denied entry by all cities, and hunted mercilessly whenever sighted, their harrowed existence granted them a dogged determination to survive, and a resourcefulness that could not be underestimated, which was highly valued by people such as Erys. They infiltrated into the depths of the cities, gathering information and resources, sabotaging where they could, but were hopelessly outmatched in power and numbers, and the grim sight of their lifeless bodies strung up along the walls of Vaporveil was an often repeated tale from the rare few granted access into the city from the outside. Officially, they were called Strangers. This particular stranger, Erys recalled, had just returned from Ashen, the sprawling city of fire and monstrous furnaces to the north. Backed by the Soot Mountains, grown through centuries of accumulated particle buildup from the constant firing of the cities furnaces, it stood glowing brilliant vermilion amongst a sea of dusty black, its burning light reaching for miles around. Erys had not spoken to anyone who had actually seen it, until he met the curious stranger deep within Vaporveils industrial sector, where he bought the information needed to access the cities protected interior.

He looked for instructions on the next step. ‘FOLLOW THE PIPES’ it read, written hurriedly and understated, as all of it was. Eyrs glanced upwards, and saw solid bronze pipes, bound by steel in bunches of three, snaking along the ceiling. All heading in the same singular direction. He stuffed the paper in his coat pocket, and wiped the condensation from his eyes. ‘One more step’ he thought. ‘One more step is all it ever takes.’ He set off into the gloom.

Heartbreak (Cont)

Reaching through hissing blasts of steam, Erys tentatively put his hand upon the door. It felt warm, humming with suppressed energy, barely constrained by plated steel. Oil dripped continuously from its face, snaking along the rivets in burnt sienna rivers, although flowing from no obvious source; pushed through its metal skin by immeasurable forces unknown. Clockwork gears and machinery ran along its border, visible beneath the metal plates of the front wall which turned opaque as it approached the ground, rendering its innards visible as the building struck deep into the concrete. Erys remained still, his hand motionless upon the door. He was weary of being seen, but felt strangely paralysed in the sight of his goal. A single unwanted observer, an alarm raised, and he would soon be disappearing into the black depths of the Gearmen’s sanctuary, on the far side of the City facing onto Sable Bay. No one returned from that place, so he was told. Stories were whispered about figures seen in windows, hands clenched despairingly on bars, cries emanating out and falling upon the crashing waves. Yet, he was not compelled to move. He was grappling with the unnerving feeling that he had seen this door before. This was impossible. ‘I would know if I had been here’, he reasoned with himself. But the feeling remained, splintered into his thoughts and refusing to be dismissed, an indistinct recognition – as if from a long-forgotten dream. He shook his head, clearing his vision. ‘Alisia once said that I never forgot anything, that I stored everything away, for what good it did. Maybe she knew more than I ever thought’. If he ever saw her again, he would tell her that she was right. With sudden bursts, lamps illuminated one by one into the distance, spreading their yellowed light onto the darkening street, shaking Erys from his introspection. The City had completed switching cycles, with the transition into night phase now fully complete. Raucous voices drifted from nearby entertainment complex, loosed by cheap spirits and the absence of worry. Oblivious and uncaring, free from burdens of larger purpose, he could have envied them. Then, impeccably timed footsteps began to echo from the distance. An approaching patrol. The mechanical eyes of the Gearmen were always watchful, and never missed much. Erys pushed himself close against the door, and frantically began searching for the release point. He had to get in. Now.

 

The footsteps grew louder. Erys could picture their cold, insensate eyes, mechanical and unblinking, immune to fear or reason. They simply stared, and took you. As he groped at the door, feeling for a catch or release, his searching hands felt a small cylinder of metal, protruding slightly from the doors face. It seemed like it could be turned, and above it read ‘TURN TO SYNC’ , burnt chrome into the metal. With the Gearmen approaching fast, he had no other option. He gripped the cylinder, and turned. A hiss of steam erupted, and the steel tube clicked fully around, before retreating into a chamber behind it. Erys stood close to the door, willing it to open. He wondered if he would soon be one of those unnamed faces, staring bleakly out from those immense barred windows, all hope sinking behind the black waves of Sable Bay. He would be lost. She would be lost. This fear sunk deep in his stomach, and shot shivers up his spine. That could not happen. He would not allow that to happen. As his panic mounted, a metal spike slick with a viscera of oil and grime, shot forth from the door, driving into his chest in one savage motion, the cold metal piercing through his flesh and into his heart. Electric bolts of pain drove the air from his lungs, as the spike connected with the machinery within, engaging the geartrains with a series of clicks. His vision dimmed as he slumped against the door, all thoughts expelled by the burning agony being driven into his chest. His heart laboured for a moment, straining within his chest wall, before resuming in rhythm with the invading machine, beating unnaturally quickly in time with the clockwork mechanisms of the door. The Gearmen were close now. The spike retracted from his chest, and retreated into the door, dripping a trail of blood and oil. Eyrs held his chest, as oil dripped from his nose. His vision flared and cleared, surroundings now visible in vivid detail, energy pumping through his veins, feeling a strength in his muscles he never thought possible. The door now opened, sliding upwards and revealing nothing save a faint light isolated at the end of gaping stretch of darkness. He staggered through the opening, the door slamming shut just as the Gearman marched past. Collecting himself, he squinted as murky lights flickered to life along the ceiling, revealing a vast corridor, narrow and suffocating. The smell of oil hung thickly, and condensation fell in a constant rain from above, the humidity oppressive. He was here. This is where he would find his retribution. As he pulled crumpled paper from his pocket, on which was scribbled all the information he received from his contact about this place, he became aware of an altogether new question. He had come for answers, for the truth. But for this question, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know the answer. ‘What am I?’

Heartbreak

Ok, so I’m starting something new. I’ll continue on with this as I write more. I’m not entirely sure where its headed, so hopefully I figure it out at some point. I also hope it doesn’t suck.

Erys stood on the corner of a busy city street, idly drawing upon a cigarette as the crowds hurried past, scurrying about in chaotic patterns before disappearing into the maw of the creeping grey smog. Blank, flat-effect faces pushed past him, scarves wrapped over their mouths in futile opposition to the oppressive smoke. He didn’t mind the smog, inescapable as it was. It pressed its back against the dirty panes of the giant downtown buildings and crept its way down your lungs with dusty fingers, but to him, it was the warm cloak of anonymity. In a world of industry gone mad, where the machine of the city constantly churned and devoured the identities of those who composed it, it was easy to hide. He liked that. It sprawled black and wide, steel and concrete fingers reaching deep into the sky, obliterating the sun with cold indifference. Plenty of shadows in which to remain unnoticed. This would soon be a valuable commodity. However, standing amongst it, he realised that one felt small, preyed upon. At street level, sections where the exterior of the buildings had begun to wear and drop away revealed the clockwork innards of gears and pistons, a reminder that the city was alive, watching. Hungry. He lit another cigarette. ‘Those things will kill you, Erys’ he remembered his wife used to say to him, scolding gently, her mouth suppressing the beginnings of a smile. He could smell her hair, hear her voice. The memory stung inside his head. She was gone now. He instinctively put his hand to his heart, and felt the clicking of machinery beneath. Taken from him. Agents of the city, the Gearmen, took anyone they deemed necessary and they had come for them one night, kicking the door to splinters and proclaiming in their icy monotone that this was for the greater good. Bound and stunned, a syringe had been jammed in his neck, full of an oozing cocktail that thickened his blood and stopped his heart. He had heard stories like this, of people vanishing in the deepest of night, before returning a few days later, always different. Their minds were altered, chemicals having dug their roots deep into their brain, and their bodies twisted into metal nightmares, limbs or organs replaced with a jumbled mess of cogs and camshafts. They never lived long.  He had never believed it could be true. Erys had awoken, alone and disorientated, his wife now taken to a fate unknown, a burning spike of pain in his chest where his heart once resided. He dropped the cigarette, stomping it to embers beneath his feet. He was not a man prone to letting go of things easily, and too much had been taken to not demand retribution. And he knew just where to start. It all starts with the city. ‘A lot of things can kill you,’ he recalled he answered his wife one morning. ‘It just makes it easier to find the things worth living for.’

 

The shadows grew long, and Erys glanced at his watch. It would be night soon. With the sun mostly hidden it was hard to tell, such was life here, but the punctuality of the system was one thing that could be relied upon. He moved away from the corner, taking up position on the other side of the street. Erys knew he needed to watch carefully. If he missed the right building, he was unsure whether he would get another chance, as some took months to reappear, and others not at all. His heart clicked briefly, metal snagging inside his chest, before an aberrant rhythm began to labour, geartrains grinding and threatening to cease. ‘Please, not now’ he whispered to himself. Darkness began to dance around the corners of his vision, calling on him to succumb, to give in to the malfunction within. Staggering, he clawed desperately at his heart, begging it to continue. He had to go on. For her. Finally, his heart began to resume its normal rhythm. The shadows dissipated as he gasped for breath, willing the life back into his chest. Slowly, he stood upright. Crimson spots of blood lay scattered around his feet. Feeling at his nose, he hand came away smeared with red and oil. He was running out of time.

 

Crunching of gears signalled the beginning of the next cycle, as the buildings began moving to life. The crowds dispersed off the street, heading swiftly for their residential complexes, or the nearest entertainment centre, painted gaudily and spotted with lights to attract the attention of those passing by. They had never really been his scene, serving cheap spirits to assuage the heartless. Cogs began to move achingly, as steam poured from the outlet pipes above each floor. The interiors began to shift, reassembling itself to suit a new nightly purpose. Yellow light crept from within, spreading out upon the street in smears. One floor rotated inwards, guided along strained metal rails, throwing coppery rust like polluted snow, before it disappeared into the buildings entrails, and vanished from sight. Another began to work down into its place, a night cycle facility, waiting to accept its workers and maintainers. All over the city this was happening, the nightly re-purposing of itself, a monster shedding its skin. But, he was looking for one building in particular, and he had been given information that it would appear tonight, in this sector. This information had not been easy to attain, and had cost him more than he cared to remember, but it would be worth it by the end. It had to be worth it. Then, he saw it. A dark, metal-veined building came sliding out to the streetfront, revealing itself through coils of steam. It dripped oil, pooling upon the street in industrial lakes, as gears clicked through its metal plated skin. Possessing a solitary riveted door, it did not look inviting. A grime covered plate above the door read ‘INTERNAL’. This was it. He was sure of it. Erys clutched his heart, and approached the door.

 

Dead Tired

Death glanced over the mornings schedule, empty sockets peering with cold intensity over the neatly typed page. It was a typical day.

Mourning Schedule:

Kill

Skull polish

Kill

Lunch

His assistant had a habit of inserting these curious puns into his work. He didn’t quite understand it, and even if he had, he had long forgotten how to laugh. He thought he had once, but it turned out that he had gum in his neck. Did it involve moving? Or was it a sitting activity? These questions irritated him, but the menial details of existence had long become blurred, turned to dust inside his bleached white skull. But, all in all, a typical day. Except something was wrong. He couldn’t quite determine what it was, but a foreign and unnerving sensation had begun to press down upon him, straining his joints beneath his sable cloak. A feeling of listlessness, a silent and creeping ennui, advancing upon him as he attempted to concentrate upon his morning tasks. Being unable to define this feeling frustrated him, but he had found it was easy to be of few words when you generally killed people with them. Suddenly it dawned on him. He was tired. The realisation was startling, as he was fairly sure that he wasn’t supposed to get tired, so he turned the sensation over gingerly in his head, examining it with the meticulous scrutiny only an eternity of collecting souls could provide. Despite this, the feeling grew. He didn’t even have a brain, and yet he was sure he had a headache. Death was immovable and unending, and did not have bad days where it would rather stay in bed. It did not have moods or inclinations. Remembering this fact compelled him to rise from his desk, and attempt to focus on the upcoming tasks of the day. Although, he could recall a day where he had lost part of his foot. It had eventually turned up underneath a filing cabinet, but if something could be qualified as a bad day, that was probably it. He reached for his scythe, the metal shining and edge grinning in the gloom of his office. Grasping it firmly, he swept out the door, cloak trailing behind him as a shadow does its master.

Arriving at his first destination, he saw that he was to collect the soul of a forty year old man, who was heading for a chest-clutching heart attack. He had arrived at a park, on a summer day one could use as a template for all days to follow. The sun shone brilliantly in an azure sky, flawless and golden. Death did not have much appreciation for good weather. To him, good weather just meant more people outside to be hit by buses and die in freak yachting accidents. Glancing around for his victim, he saw a man running laps around a calm lake, completely oblivious to all except the track presented before him. That was the first victim of the day. He certainly didn’t look prone to a massive heart attack, but cardiology was not one of his areas of interest. Besides, appearances could be deceiving. He waited for the man to complete his lap. Running was also not one of his areas of interest. All-powerful eternal being or not, no one looks dignified running in a cloak. As he waited, the vague agitation he had experienced before began to renew with increased intensity. He attempted to ignore the sensation once again, but it continued to grow, dripping onto his normally ordered thought like a faulty tap inside his head. Fatigue and routine. An eternity of dispensing his namesake had now begun to takes its toll. Now he could grasp what was wrong – he didn’t want to do this any more. With the thought crystallised, it was now impossible to placate. In the midst of this epiphany, he almost failed to notice that his victim has rounded the last bend, and was now approaching rapidly. Perhaps devoting his full attention to the business at hand would assuage the turmoil he now felt. He rose to his full height, and spoke as the rather red faced man drew near.

‘I HAVE COME …’

The man did not stop. In fact, he didn’t even slow, or show any sign of acknowledgement in the slightest, and continued on to his next lap. This was quite a blow. When gifted with extraordinary power, one likes to be treated in a manner befitting as such, not viewed with as much interest as a telephone pole. Why was he doing this? He was sure he could be doing other things, not being ignored by a mortal more concerned with lap times than an ancient apparition coming to take his life. What was barely contained now broke into full mutiny. Why should he be doing this? What was to stop him from simply returning to his realm, putting his cloak over his head, and sleeping for a thousand years? The running man approached again, significantly more flushed.

‘I HAVE COME FOR …’

Again, the man continued on, headphones on and music blaring. Utterly ignored, Death sat down. He had now arrived at a terminus, a suitable point for the end. Only this time, it would be his end. He placed his scythe upon the ground, loathe to leave it but unable to take it on the upcoming journey. Producing a bony hand from his sleeve, he raised it above his head. Soon he would have peace, and would no longer be forced into the servitude that he could not remember commencing. Surely his assistant would do a satisfactory job, although the puns would have to go. Bringing his hand down, he placed Death’s touch upon himself, and began to fade, the anguish dissolving into joyous relief, flooding over him like liquid. Now, he could rest. Before the last remnant blinked out, he remembered his skull polishing. That may have cheered him up, now that he thought about it.