My Short Stories

A Gift From Death

The area was dark. It was like someone has switched off the lights. A bonfire crackled in the middle of the cavern, sending stray sparks flying into the air. The fire turned from red to a ghastly purple or an algae green at random.

A hooded figure sat, stoking the flames gently—adding more lumber to the fire, keeping it going.

Spectral ravens crowed, titling their heads at the figure, as if speaking to it. The crows had a bluish-green tint to them, that was barely visible. They looked normal—except for the small fact that they were as transparent as glass.

The figure coked his head towards the ravens, musing thoughtfully. He listened to their lives—before they had died—and were forced into the underworld. This ravens were his companions for centuries, standing proudly by his side through all crises.

Death was an interesting person—to say the least. Most thought of him as dangerous and something to fight against, when the reality was much different.

Death didn't like his job; guiding poor, grieving souls through the underworld to the judges. He tried his best to keep them happy, to give them hope. Alas, many didn't believe him to have good intentions, and went insane.

He couldn't guide everyone safely, that was the hard truth. Thousands upon thousands of souls entered his realm, forcing him to split his soul into various parts, helping the poor souls. Sometimes that was not possible. Sometimes there were too many to properly save.

He mourned and felt it was his fault when a soul went insane and lost the path to the judges. He was supposed to guide them—and yet many went crazy even under his watch. This guilt carried over for millennia.

Thankfully, he had his crows to console him. He gently picked up a flower petal from the stack beside him, twisting it and throwing it into the darkness.

An image blazed to life—one that showed the mortal realm. He watched families going for picnics, eating, laughing, and enjoying their lives.

Death was never in one place.

He was always watching, ready to dive in and capture a soul. The only form of Death that wasn't on the move was the actual Death; the one who controlled all his other clones. He fed his crows their food at the regular times, met Life at some points and made chat with her.

Death raised his arm, chanting something under his breath. Suddenly, a circle blazed in front of him. A human tumbled from it.

Death noted the mortal was an adult, with a skinny frame and a freckled face. The mortal patted the area, searching for his spectacles.

Death snapped his fingers and the spectacles were conjured from thin air, landing askew on the mortal's nose.

The mortal glanced at him, stunned. 'Are you—are you the Grim Reaper?' He asked. The poor fellow's body was shaking with fright. Death pulled down his hood.

'Yes. Yes I am. No need to be afraid. I don't attack souls, I guide them,' he said quietly, voice barely a whisper.

The mortal didn't seem convinced. 'But—'

'What the mortals say is not true,' Death said gently. 'I don not attack anyone. My job is to simply guide you to the Judges.'

He beckoned the mortal. 'Come, sit at my bonfire for as long as you want.'

The mortal reluctantly sat down. The spectral crows chirped, studying the new soul curiously. The mortal looked down, noticing that his body was transparent. Like a ghost.

'What is your name?'

'John,' the human said meekly.

'Ah,' said Death, throwing a pack of bird food at one of the more hungry crows chIRping next to him.

'Can—can I see my daughter once again?' John said shakily.

Death picked up a flower petal and threw it into the darkness. John looked bemused. 'Why did you—'

An image blazed to life. John nearly fell to the rocky ground in shock. Death got up and strode forward, helping John up.

He pointed to a diminutive brown house. A girl was dejectedly playing with her action figures, her mom standing behind her, eyes puffy as if she had been crying all day.

Death watched sadly as the girl and mom went on with their day, mourning their husband and father. He averted his eyes from the sight. He couldn't watch anymore. He couldn't see their suffering.

John shouted at the image, 'Laura! Emma! I'm here!' He waved his arms frantically. The mortals didn't seem to hear.

John's desperate voice sent a pang of guilt down Death's heart. Here he was, denying access to this mortal's life. He knew he couldn't bring the mortal back to life—that wasn't in his control—and it would cause severe problems. But...

Death had a brilliant idea spark in his cranium. He whirled around to John, scythe by his side. 'I will let you go back to your life—as a ghost. You can watch over them.'

John nodded gratefully. 'Thank you!'

If Death had any lips, he would've smiled.

He raised his hand, and the mortal exploded in a blast of golden light.

*

Emma felt a slight cold brush against her cheek. She glanced around, bewildered. It was a summer day, how could there be cold wind?

Even Laura looked up from her toys. A voice seemed to whisper in the wind, 'Emma, Laura, I'm here.'

Laura looked at Emma. 'Mommy, did dad just talk?'

Emma nodded. It might sound weird, but she felt a warm smile behind her. She had the bizarre notion that John was still alive, watching. She didn't know how this idea came to be, but it felt right.

Emma looked at her small daughter. She grinned brightly and nodded, 'Yes, Laura. Yes.'