Words Not Spoken (A Short Story Collection)

This One's About Death

A low wind blows over the horizon. Grass sways in the breeze, rising and falling like waves. A pale moon rises over a lonely road. The night is young and the night is old. This is a story about death.

A lonely man trudges forward on the lonely road. There was once a spring in his step, bright eyes trained on a brighter horizon. There was a time when he had many things. Now all he has left is his steady pace.

He plows onward, heavily favoring his right side. He gazes into the perpetual horizon. When he looks back, he cannot see where he came from, but when he looks forward, he cannot see where he is going. The past recedes and the future precedes.

Scattered woodlands surround the man's path, just enough to obscure his vision. Just enough that if he chooses to look right or left, he only finds darkness. There is nothing for him there, he is sure of it.

Then he sees something in the corner of his vision. A blur of movement, a whistle of silver. He whips around his eyes darts and his neck a twig in a storm. Just in time to glimpse a jet black cloak. Memories flood into his mind like a Kraken emerging from the depths.

Panic flares in his eyes. His limp pains him with every step. He takes flight. He careens down the path. Only when he is sure that the shadow has left does he slow his pace. And once again he takes up his steady stride.

This was not the first time he has done so. It has been such for as long as he can remember. The same pace, the same encounter, the same escape. He has grown tired of such a cycle, and now it seems that the cycle is broken.

The horizon has changed. It no longer bends into the distance. He can see his journey's end. A black speck awaits him there. Curtain call. The end of the line.

He takes a deep breath for the first time in so very long. Fresh wind fills his nostrils, and he relaxes his shoulders. His trudge turns into a saunter. His gaze flits between the horizon and the woods. He lets out a long sigh and smiles. Not so far to go now.

This is a story about Death. At the end of the road, he awaits the lonely man on his lonely walk. The man greets Death like an old friend. Death brandishes his scythe and asks him if he has any last words.

"No words, old friend," the man says with a smile. "Just gratitude. My journey would not have been as exciting without you."

Death nods and raises his scythe. He allows the man a final breath of the evening air before he brings it down. A flash of silver and the man is gone.

This is a story about death. This is a story about life. This is a story about you.