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I would say I was an easily scared person.
I’ll twitch at the glimpse of a slinking shadow from the corner of my eye on a windy winters night and I will hide beneath my bed sheets when the whistling of the wind sounds treacherously like the screams of the damned.
The thought of hideous green-skinned devils taking my soul whilst I sleep makes my teeth chatter, and the projection of a ghostly phantom on my window on a snowy eve makes me reach for my crucifix. I’m rather superstitious, you see. I believe in the legends I hear from the townsfolk and the mystical creatures that roam the moors on a night.
So, as you can imagine, I was stricken with relative unease one chilly winters night when Death knocked on my door. Now folklore has it around here that Death cannot enter your house unless he is invited in. It stands to reason that I wouldn’t invite this bony old harbinger into my house, but he can be awfully persuasive you see. He stood out in the cold with his hood pulled up over his bony face and rubbing his skeletal hands together to generate some warmth. “You must be freezing” was the first thing I said to death, “Come inside and let me make you a hot drink” was the second.
I offered to take his black robe but he politely declined, telling me that underneath the robe he was hideously rotted and the mere sight of his decomposing flesh would almost certainly freeze my very heart. Death took a seat by the fireplace to warm his weary old bones and I heated up a pan of milk at the stove. “So, what brings you here?” I queried Death in a worried tone. “I’m here to take your soul” was his stern reply. “Oh” I stuttered, “that’s a shame”
“Why’s that” asked Death?
“Well” I began, thinking on my feet, “It would be the shame to deprive the world of someone so great at making hot chocolate as myself”
Death chuckled heartily. “People usually come up with something better than that before I tear their soul from their screaming body and drag them into the everlasting inferno.”
“Oh..” I began
“Seriously, you wouldn’t believe the things people have said to me. I’ve been challenged to arm wrestles, pop quizzes, and one guy even played Jenga with me on the condition that if he won he could live. Nobody has persuaded me to let them live yet, and I’ve been doing this gig for 60 years now.”
I stirred the Cocoa power into the milk, poured it into a large mug and stirred it thrice before traversing the firelit room and placing it in Death’s icy hands.
“Thanks” said Death, sipping the drink. “Hey, you weren’t lying about being a talented hot chocolate maker!”
“No I wasn’t” I began, “I’ve been making it for almost 50 years now, it’s a secret recipe I use that gives it an extra something.”
“It’s got an extra something all right!” exclaimed Death, now gulping down his hot chocolate
I sat in a panicked silence waiting for Death to finish his drink before he took away my soul away to burn forever. Death slurped his drink like a puppy messily lapping water from a bowl.
“What is it you do then?” Asked Death once he has finished, propping his scythe against the mantelpiece
“Well I’m a woodsman by craft, b-but I also do some charity work”
Death laughed again, “Charity work is a guilty man’s alleviation”
“I do it because I like helping others!” I exclaimed, “I’m a good man and I don’t deserve to die”
For the third time Death laughed again. “If you’re on my list you must have done something rather bad” he said, motioning to a rolled up yellowish scroll in his robe pocket.
“Not a thing” I said, “honestly!”
“Hmm” said death, stroking his gristly chin, “Well perhaps we should strike up some kind of deal here?”
I stared blankly at Death, who has made himself very much at home and had his weatherworn skeletal feet resting on my coffee table.
“We need to figure out a plan that will let the world think I’ve done my job, but still allows you to live” Death pondered, “I think I’ve got it!”
“Go on” I prompted
“You could be my assistant!” He cried in an excited tone, “It’s a brilliant plot!”
The choice of being dead or being Death’s assistant was an easy one, plus Death didn’t seem a bad character. “I’ll do it.” I said.
Death extended his bony arm to shake on our new arrangement but my nervousness caused me to grip his hand a little too tight. Death let out a blood curdling howl as his bony hand turned to dust and crumbled onto my shaggy carpet.
“That was my scything arm, you fool!” Death shouted, "I wont be able to reap souls any more! "
“I’m so sorry” I murmured, “Is there anything I can do?”
“Yes you clumsy fool” Death yelled, “You’ll have to take my place as Death!”
We discussed what the proceedings would entail and I glumly accepted to take his place as the ominous harbinger until he found a replacement hand from eBay. He handed me the list of souls I was to reap, the scythe to reap them with and started to remove the heavy black cloak which he told me I needed to wear for the authentic Death look. I gazed across the room at him, uncloaked, and collapsed through my coffee table to lie on the floor; bloody and splintered and dead.
“Oh yeah” Death said, nervously rubbing the back of his neck, “I forgot about that.”
I’ll twitch at the glimpse of a slinking shadow from the corner of my eye on a windy winters night and I will hide beneath my bed sheets when the whistling of the wind sounds treacherously like the screams of the damned.
The thought of hideous green-skinned devils taking my soul whilst I sleep makes my teeth chatter, and the projection of a ghostly phantom on my window on a snowy eve makes me reach for my crucifix. I’m rather superstitious, you see. I believe in the legends I hear from the townsfolk and the mystical creatures that roam the moors on a night.
So, as you can imagine, I was stricken with relative unease one chilly winters night when Death knocked on my door. Now folklore has it around here that Death cannot enter your house unless he is invited in. It stands to reason that I wouldn’t invite this bony old harbinger into my house, but he can be awfully persuasive you see. He stood out in the cold with his hood pulled up over his bony face and rubbing his skeletal hands together to generate some warmth. “You must be freezing” was the first thing I said to death, “Come inside and let me make you a hot drink” was the second.
I offered to take his black robe but he politely declined, telling me that underneath the robe he was hideously rotted and the mere sight of his decomposing flesh would almost certainly freeze my very heart. Death took a seat by the fireplace to warm his weary old bones and I heated up a pan of milk at the stove. “So, what brings you here?” I queried Death in a worried tone. “I’m here to take your soul” was his stern reply. “Oh” I stuttered, “that’s a shame”
“Why’s that” asked Death?
“Well” I began, thinking on my feet, “It would be the shame to deprive the world of someone so great at making hot chocolate as myself”
Death chuckled heartily. “People usually come up with something better than that before I tear their soul from their screaming body and drag them into the everlasting inferno.”
“Oh..” I began
“Seriously, you wouldn’t believe the things people have said to me. I’ve been challenged to arm wrestles, pop quizzes, and one guy even played Jenga with me on the condition that if he won he could live. Nobody has persuaded me to let them live yet, and I’ve been doing this gig for 60 years now.”
I stirred the Cocoa power into the milk, poured it into a large mug and stirred it thrice before traversing the firelit room and placing it in Death’s icy hands.
“Thanks” said Death, sipping the drink. “Hey, you weren’t lying about being a talented hot chocolate maker!”
“No I wasn’t” I began, “I’ve been making it for almost 50 years now, it’s a secret recipe I use that gives it an extra something.”
“It’s got an extra something all right!” exclaimed Death, now gulping down his hot chocolate
I sat in a panicked silence waiting for Death to finish his drink before he took away my soul away to burn forever. Death slurped his drink like a puppy messily lapping water from a bowl.
“What is it you do then?” Asked Death once he has finished, propping his scythe against the mantelpiece
“Well I’m a woodsman by craft, b-but I also do some charity work”
Death laughed again, “Charity work is a guilty man’s alleviation”
“I do it because I like helping others!” I exclaimed, “I’m a good man and I don’t deserve to die”
For the third time Death laughed again. “If you’re on my list you must have done something rather bad” he said, motioning to a rolled up yellowish scroll in his robe pocket.
“Not a thing” I said, “honestly!”
“Hmm” said death, stroking his gristly chin, “Well perhaps we should strike up some kind of deal here?”
I stared blankly at Death, who has made himself very much at home and had his weatherworn skeletal feet resting on my coffee table.
“We need to figure out a plan that will let the world think I’ve done my job, but still allows you to live” Death pondered, “I think I’ve got it!”
“Go on” I prompted
“You could be my assistant!” He cried in an excited tone, “It’s a brilliant plot!”
The choice of being dead or being Death’s assistant was an easy one, plus Death didn’t seem a bad character. “I’ll do it.” I said.
Death extended his bony arm to shake on our new arrangement but my nervousness caused me to grip his hand a little too tight. Death let out a blood curdling howl as his bony hand turned to dust and crumbled onto my shaggy carpet.
“That was my scything arm, you fool!” Death shouted, "I wont be able to reap souls any more! "
“I’m so sorry” I murmured, “Is there anything I can do?”
“Yes you clumsy fool” Death yelled, “You’ll have to take my place as Death!”
We discussed what the proceedings would entail and I glumly accepted to take his place as the ominous harbinger until he found a replacement hand from eBay. He handed me the list of souls I was to reap, the scythe to reap them with and started to remove the heavy black cloak which he told me I needed to wear for the authentic Death look. I gazed across the room at him, uncloaked, and collapsed through my coffee table to lie on the floor; bloody and splintered and dead.
“Oh yeah” Death said, nervously rubbing the back of his neck, “I forgot about that.”
Page:
Very nice indeedo.
You should have made Death speak entirely in capital letters like in Terry Pratchett novels, and not let him show any emotion such as "Death yelled"
That would be much better says me.
But I actually quite liked it.
That would be much better says me.
But I actually quite liked it.
Always one for constructive feedback aren't you Forest?
Newbies are blue!!!!
FinalFantasyFanatic wrote:
> Ahar, most good.
> Strange thing with Death - you can either make him serious or not
> (Pratchett style). There's no other way.
When writing it I envisioned a cross between Pratchett's Death and the one from Family Guy.
> Ahar, most good.
> Strange thing with Death - you can either make him serious or not
> (Pratchett style). There's no other way.
When writing it I envisioned a cross between Pratchett's Death and the one from Family Guy.
Stop talking about death. you'll give me nightmare
Ahar, most good.
Strange thing with Death - you can either make him serious or not (Pratchett style). There's no other way.
Good'un.
Nice to see some non-SSC stuff around.
Strange thing with Death - you can either make him serious or not (Pratchett style). There's no other way.
Good'un.
Nice to see some non-SSC stuff around.
Delicious if I may say so. I actually thought it was going to be ultra-serious until Death entered, and I enjoyed the kind of laid back and creepish attitude he had. Good piece, and a good ending too.
I would say I was an easily scared person.
I’ll twitch at the glimpse of a slinking shadow from the corner of my eye on a windy winters night and I will hide beneath my bed sheets when the whistling of the wind sounds treacherously like the screams of the damned.
The thought of hideous green-skinned devils taking my soul whilst I sleep makes my teeth chatter, and the projection of a ghostly phantom on my window on a snowy eve makes me reach for my crucifix. I’m rather superstitious, you see. I believe in the legends I hear from the townsfolk and the mystical creatures that roam the moors on a night.
So, as you can imagine, I was stricken with relative unease one chilly winters night when Death knocked on my door. Now folklore has it around here that Death cannot enter your house unless he is invited in. It stands to reason that I wouldn’t invite this bony old harbinger into my house, but he can be awfully persuasive you see. He stood out in the cold with his hood pulled up over his bony face and rubbing his skeletal hands together to generate some warmth. “You must be freezing” was the first thing I said to death, “Come inside and let me make you a hot drink” was the second.
I offered to take his black robe but he politely declined, telling me that underneath the robe he was hideously rotted and the mere sight of his decomposing flesh would almost certainly freeze my very heart. Death took a seat by the fireplace to warm his weary old bones and I heated up a pan of milk at the stove. “So, what brings you here?” I queried Death in a worried tone. “I’m here to take your soul” was his stern reply. “Oh” I stuttered, “that’s a shame”
“Why’s that” asked Death?
“Well” I began, thinking on my feet, “It would be the shame to deprive the world of someone so great at making hot chocolate as myself”
Death chuckled heartily. “People usually come up with something better than that before I tear their soul from their screaming body and drag them into the everlasting inferno.”
“Oh..” I began
“Seriously, you wouldn’t believe the things people have said to me. I’ve been challenged to arm wrestles, pop quizzes, and one guy even played Jenga with me on the condition that if he won he could live. Nobody has persuaded me to let them live yet, and I’ve been doing this gig for 60 years now.”
I stirred the Cocoa power into the milk, poured it into a large mug and stirred it thrice before traversing the firelit room and placing it in Death’s icy hands.
“Thanks” said Death, sipping the drink. “Hey, you weren’t lying about being a talented hot chocolate maker!”
“No I wasn’t” I began, “I’ve been making it for almost 50 years now, it’s a secret recipe I use that gives it an extra something.”
“It’s got an extra something all right!” exclaimed Death, now gulping down his hot chocolate
I sat in a panicked silence waiting for Death to finish his drink before he took away my soul away to burn forever. Death slurped his drink like a puppy messily lapping water from a bowl.
“What is it you do then?” Asked Death once he has finished, propping his scythe against the mantelpiece
“Well I’m a woodsman by craft, b-but I also do some charity work”
Death laughed again, “Charity work is a guilty man’s alleviation”
“I do it because I like helping others!” I exclaimed, “I’m a good man and I don’t deserve to die”
For the third time Death laughed again. “If you’re on my list you must have done something rather bad” he said, motioning to a rolled up yellowish scroll in his robe pocket.
“Not a thing” I said, “honestly!”
“Hmm” said death, stroking his gristly chin, “Well perhaps we should strike up some kind of deal here?”
I stared blankly at Death, who has made himself very much at home and had his weatherworn skeletal feet resting on my coffee table.
“We need to figure out a plan that will let the world think I’ve done my job, but still allows you to live” Death pondered, “I think I’ve got it!”
“Go on” I prompted
“You could be my assistant!” He cried in an excited tone, “It’s a brilliant plot!”
The choice of being dead or being Death’s assistant was an easy one, plus Death didn’t seem a bad character. “I’ll do it.” I said.
Death extended his bony arm to shake on our new arrangement but my nervousness caused me to grip his hand a little too tight. Death let out a blood curdling howl as his bony hand turned to dust and crumbled onto my shaggy carpet.
“That was my scything arm, you fool!” Death shouted, "I wont be able to reap souls any more! "
“I’m so sorry” I murmured, “Is there anything I can do?”
“Yes you clumsy fool” Death yelled, “You’ll have to take my place as Death!”
We discussed what the proceedings would entail and I glumly accepted to take his place as the ominous harbinger until he found a replacement hand from eBay. He handed me the list of souls I was to reap, the scythe to reap them with and started to remove the heavy black cloak which he told me I needed to wear for the authentic Death look. I gazed across the room at him, uncloaked, and collapsed through my coffee table to lie on the floor; bloody and splintered and dead.
“Oh yeah” Death said, nervously rubbing the back of his neck, “I forgot about that.”
I’ll twitch at the glimpse of a slinking shadow from the corner of my eye on a windy winters night and I will hide beneath my bed sheets when the whistling of the wind sounds treacherously like the screams of the damned.
The thought of hideous green-skinned devils taking my soul whilst I sleep makes my teeth chatter, and the projection of a ghostly phantom on my window on a snowy eve makes me reach for my crucifix. I’m rather superstitious, you see. I believe in the legends I hear from the townsfolk and the mystical creatures that roam the moors on a night.
So, as you can imagine, I was stricken with relative unease one chilly winters night when Death knocked on my door. Now folklore has it around here that Death cannot enter your house unless he is invited in. It stands to reason that I wouldn’t invite this bony old harbinger into my house, but he can be awfully persuasive you see. He stood out in the cold with his hood pulled up over his bony face and rubbing his skeletal hands together to generate some warmth. “You must be freezing” was the first thing I said to death, “Come inside and let me make you a hot drink” was the second.
I offered to take his black robe but he politely declined, telling me that underneath the robe he was hideously rotted and the mere sight of his decomposing flesh would almost certainly freeze my very heart. Death took a seat by the fireplace to warm his weary old bones and I heated up a pan of milk at the stove. “So, what brings you here?” I queried Death in a worried tone. “I’m here to take your soul” was his stern reply. “Oh” I stuttered, “that’s a shame”
“Why’s that” asked Death?
“Well” I began, thinking on my feet, “It would be the shame to deprive the world of someone so great at making hot chocolate as myself”
Death chuckled heartily. “People usually come up with something better than that before I tear their soul from their screaming body and drag them into the everlasting inferno.”
“Oh..” I began
“Seriously, you wouldn’t believe the things people have said to me. I’ve been challenged to arm wrestles, pop quizzes, and one guy even played Jenga with me on the condition that if he won he could live. Nobody has persuaded me to let them live yet, and I’ve been doing this gig for 60 years now.”
I stirred the Cocoa power into the milk, poured it into a large mug and stirred it thrice before traversing the firelit room and placing it in Death’s icy hands.
“Thanks” said Death, sipping the drink. “Hey, you weren’t lying about being a talented hot chocolate maker!”
“No I wasn’t” I began, “I’ve been making it for almost 50 years now, it’s a secret recipe I use that gives it an extra something.”
“It’s got an extra something all right!” exclaimed Death, now gulping down his hot chocolate
I sat in a panicked silence waiting for Death to finish his drink before he took away my soul away to burn forever. Death slurped his drink like a puppy messily lapping water from a bowl.
“What is it you do then?” Asked Death once he has finished, propping his scythe against the mantelpiece
“Well I’m a woodsman by craft, b-but I also do some charity work”
Death laughed again, “Charity work is a guilty man’s alleviation”
“I do it because I like helping others!” I exclaimed, “I’m a good man and I don’t deserve to die”
For the third time Death laughed again. “If you’re on my list you must have done something rather bad” he said, motioning to a rolled up yellowish scroll in his robe pocket.
“Not a thing” I said, “honestly!”
“Hmm” said death, stroking his gristly chin, “Well perhaps we should strike up some kind of deal here?”
I stared blankly at Death, who has made himself very much at home and had his weatherworn skeletal feet resting on my coffee table.
“We need to figure out a plan that will let the world think I’ve done my job, but still allows you to live” Death pondered, “I think I’ve got it!”
“Go on” I prompted
“You could be my assistant!” He cried in an excited tone, “It’s a brilliant plot!”
The choice of being dead or being Death’s assistant was an easy one, plus Death didn’t seem a bad character. “I’ll do it.” I said.
Death extended his bony arm to shake on our new arrangement but my nervousness caused me to grip his hand a little too tight. Death let out a blood curdling howl as his bony hand turned to dust and crumbled onto my shaggy carpet.
“That was my scything arm, you fool!” Death shouted, "I wont be able to reap souls any more! "
“I’m so sorry” I murmured, “Is there anything I can do?”
“Yes you clumsy fool” Death yelled, “You’ll have to take my place as Death!”
We discussed what the proceedings would entail and I glumly accepted to take his place as the ominous harbinger until he found a replacement hand from eBay. He handed me the list of souls I was to reap, the scythe to reap them with and started to remove the heavy black cloak which he told me I needed to wear for the authentic Death look. I gazed across the room at him, uncloaked, and collapsed through my coffee table to lie on the floor; bloody and splintered and dead.
“Oh yeah” Death said, nervously rubbing the back of his neck, “I forgot about that.”
Page: