Sunday (-ish) Short

I met Death on the road today.

There was no confusion as to his true nature. At once an old man, and a young one, tall and short, fat and thin, none of it covered the skull that shown from beneath his hood.

He pointed with a long, thin/short, stubby/bony finger down the road I was traveling and asked me if that was the path I had chosen.

I nodded.

He asked me if I knew what awaited me there.

I shook my head no, though I had an idea of lay at the end of the road.

He gazed at me through his empty, black eye sockets - the only part he made no attempt to disguise - and seemed to ponder.

The wind blew and rattled the bare branches that curved over us like the roof of a great cathedral. There was a chill in the that wind, much colder than the ambient air temperature, and on the breeze, there was the scent of rot and decay.

Death asked me if I desired company on my journey.

It was my turn to ponder. Everywhere I went so too did Death. He had been following me for quite some time; I thought it best not to let him get ahead of me.

I shrugged, letting that be my answer. Death offered his hand, to shake on the deal. I looked at that pale appendage, and turned away. He couldn't touch me on his own accord. I had to initiate contact, and that wasn't going to happen. At least not anytime soon.

I continued on, Death fell in beside me. We walked together, Death and I. The next village was just around the bend.


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