Post by MambaduMal on Nov 19, 2003 15:39:48 GMT -5
There is a time, at the very breaking of day, or the very last moments just before night, and sometimes just after tea, when a curious cloud can be seen in the sky. It usually hovers just over the horizon, always a slightly darker shade than those surrounding it. This is the home of Death.
Death, the Grim Reaper, is a very successful creature. He has a steady job, a lovely house, a well-clipped lawn, and until recently, a beautiful wife.
The wife was merely a conversation piece. Death, having no strong emotions, could not love her. Of course, it is very hard to love someone so completely obnoxious.
Despite her gorgeous, spidery looks, Death’s wife had a tendency to nag and whine. No one, not even the Grim Reaper himself, could shut her up.
“Phyllis Marie,” he would say, “You are lucky I do not have a temper. If I did, I would have lost it eons ago.”
His wife, annoyed that she didn’t know what an eon was, would then demand another black rose for the garden, or another Hellhound puppy to keep her company.
Death gave her everything she could ever want. The lovely house was full of lacy trinkets, and the well-clipped lawn was decked in potted nightshade.
Despite his efforts, Phyllis was unhappy.
As nice as it was to eat dark chocolate bonbons and harass the servants and smoke her elegant cigarettes, she was bored. Her husband worked on a monotonous schedule, riding to earth and ushering souls into the underworld, day in and day out. Phyllis had never even set foot in the real world before.
“What do you even do down there?” she screeched one particularly gloomy Saturday. “Is there another woman?”
She put her hand dramatically to her forehead as if she was about to faint.
“Most certainly not,” Death calmly replied. “I use my scythe to slice the souls from dead bodies.”
“Some of which might be women’s bodies!” Phyllis’ voice shattered the dusty wine glasses on the shelf.
Death rose, towering over her in his black cape and skeletal grin. His shadow stretched across the room. His wife was completely enclosed by his shadow.
“Must walk the fish,” he muttered, turning away and gliding out the door.
Phyllis exhaled.
“Well how do you like that?” she asked No One In Particular.
No One In Particular shrugged, and left the room also, following his master.
“Some butler that No One In Particular is,” she scoffed.
Suddenly, the sound of an angelic chorus filled the air. A bright light sifted through the stained glass, gliding across the room and into a darkened corner.
The corner was occupied by a scythe. Not just any scythe, but a magic scythe, used for slicing the souls from dead bodies, which might or might not be the bodies of women. It glinted in the narrow stream of light from the window, and the translucent blue blade shimmered like the sun.
It was like an omen, a vision. The light and the singing could not have been a coincidence.
Actually, it was. The maid, who was tired of listening to Death’s infernal grunge rock, had turned on some classical music, and the window wiper, who hadn’t been to work in years, was finally getting around to cleaning the windows.
Phyllis, however, was not aware of this, and took it as a sign. A sign that she must do something.
She grabbed the scythe. It looked heavy, but it was light as a feather. It was larger than a feather, however, and far more dangerous, and normally feathers do not have a menacing glow. She slung the scythe over her shoulder, amazed at the little effort that it took.
She was going to go down to earth. Death’s job couldn’t be all that hard; she would just slice a few souls and come back before her husband knew what she’d done. It was a perfect plan.
Except for the fact that she needed to sneak out of the mansion first.
The only logical way to try and conceal it was to hide it behind her back, and even this didn’t work. The blade stuck out at an odd angle to the right of her head, and the handle dragged along behind her like a wooden tail. She prayed that if anyone saw her, they would be extremely near-sighted.
She crept along the dark corridors, jumping at every little noise. She nearly had a heart attack when the window wiper slipped off his scaffolding and fell screaming into a rosebush. After calming herself, she made a mental note to lower his pay. And if he had died, she would lower his pay posthumously. She continued along the corridor.
She was almost to the front door when she heard a noise. It sounded like an ostrich singing with a head cold, and if you have ever heard a singing ostrich with a head cold, it’s enough to make you stop in your tracks.
Phyllis stopped in her tracks.
The noise came from the scullery maid, who was staring straight at Phyllis, a pensive and wistful look on her face.
“Romeo,” she murmured.
Death’s wife was quite taken aback. “Pardon?” she sniffed, surprised.
“Deny thy father and refuse thy name! Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, and I'll no longer be a Capulet.”
Phyllis blinked. “Speak English!”
“Hot dog! I’m sure to win the Scullery Maid Talent Show this year!” the maid exclaimed. Grinning, she took a dirty script from her apron and thumbed through it rapidly.
“Answer your mistress!” Death’s wife shrieked, utterly confused.
The scullery maid showed no sign of acknowledgement.
After working out the most horrendous insult she could think of, she realized that perhaps the girl could not see her. She waved around a bit. No response.
“So that’s how he does it,” Phyllis breathed. “That’s how no one knows what Death looks like. They can’t see or hear him, because of this scythe. I must say, I’m impressed.”
She made a rude gesture at the maid and dashed away laughing.
She came to a rapid halt at the edge of the cloud, dumbstruck. There was only one more obstacle preventing her from reaching the ground.
It was a whole lot of distance.
She didn’t move a single sinewy muscle in her body. She considered taking out a cigarette and smoking it to calm her nerves, but then decided against it. Inexplicably, bad things always seemed to happen to smokers.
Her clammy fingers slowly and steadily lost their grip on the scythe, and it slipped out of her grasp.
As it fell forward, Phyllis’ world seemed to go in slow motion. The wind stopped howling. Her voice was slowed down and distorted as she screamed, “NO!”
Everything moved so slowly that the scythe didn’t seem to be moving.
The scythe wasn’t moving.
It had fallen until it was horizontal, and then it hovered in midair. Phyllis blinked.
“That’s never happened before,” she said, surprised.
She gingerly poked it with her toe. It quivered, but otherwise didn’t move. She pushed down on it with her heel. It sank slightly, but seemed as sturdy as a scythe hovering in midair is able to seem.
“It’s like a witch’s broomstick,” she said with awe, “only you have to be careful not to sit on the metal part.”
She winced as she thought of this.
Cautiously, she slid onto the handle, eyes closed tightly.
It shot off like a rocket, right down into the midst of a sleepy town that sat nestled in the sharp mountains below. Like glue, Phyllis stuck to the handle. Also like glue, she was very, very white.
The glue comparison, however, ends at the moment she was about to collide with a castle wall. Glue, if it was flying through the air at the rate Phyllis was, would splat against the stones and ooze down the masonry. Death’s wife, however, went right through.
She tumbled into a busy ballroom, apparently a masquerade or fancy costume party.
No one seemed to notice her. Each of the pig-faced ladies twirled with the hog-faced gentlemen, the pale-faced princesses twirled with the tan-faced princes, and the old blind guy in the corner danced with an empty suit of armor. Everyone seemed happy.
Phyllis sat up, rubbing her aching forehead and blinking her eyes against the differently-colored skirts that mopped the floor in kaleidoscopic patterns. She gripped her scythe nervously, trying to reassure herself that she was completely invisible. However, even if you are invisible, it’s rather unnerving to fly straight through a seemingly solid wall.
She was recollecting her senses on the perfectly waxed dance floor when a particularly nasty-looking girl waltzed through the doors, looking like a princess. In a nasally voice, she reprimanded her servants, reprimanded her cowering boyfriend, even reprimanded the chattering group of old people trying to greet her.
Phyllis was appalled. “Even I’m not as snotty as that!” she cried.
And suddenly, something happened. A very painful something indeed.
A chandelier, possibly cut by some young cad on the stairway, was gravitating toward the obnoxious princess at an alarming rate.
It also hit her at an alarming rate, and she died instantly.
Phyllis grinned. “Finally! Some action around here!”
All of the party guests stopped dancing. It was incredible, the silence that followed.
Death, the Grim Reaper, is a very successful creature. He has a steady job, a lovely house, a well-clipped lawn, and until recently, a beautiful wife.
The wife was merely a conversation piece. Death, having no strong emotions, could not love her. Of course, it is very hard to love someone so completely obnoxious.
Despite her gorgeous, spidery looks, Death’s wife had a tendency to nag and whine. No one, not even the Grim Reaper himself, could shut her up.
“Phyllis Marie,” he would say, “You are lucky I do not have a temper. If I did, I would have lost it eons ago.”
His wife, annoyed that she didn’t know what an eon was, would then demand another black rose for the garden, or another Hellhound puppy to keep her company.
Death gave her everything she could ever want. The lovely house was full of lacy trinkets, and the well-clipped lawn was decked in potted nightshade.
Despite his efforts, Phyllis was unhappy.
As nice as it was to eat dark chocolate bonbons and harass the servants and smoke her elegant cigarettes, she was bored. Her husband worked on a monotonous schedule, riding to earth and ushering souls into the underworld, day in and day out. Phyllis had never even set foot in the real world before.
“What do you even do down there?” she screeched one particularly gloomy Saturday. “Is there another woman?”
She put her hand dramatically to her forehead as if she was about to faint.
“Most certainly not,” Death calmly replied. “I use my scythe to slice the souls from dead bodies.”
“Some of which might be women’s bodies!” Phyllis’ voice shattered the dusty wine glasses on the shelf.
Death rose, towering over her in his black cape and skeletal grin. His shadow stretched across the room. His wife was completely enclosed by his shadow.
“Must walk the fish,” he muttered, turning away and gliding out the door.
Phyllis exhaled.
“Well how do you like that?” she asked No One In Particular.
No One In Particular shrugged, and left the room also, following his master.
“Some butler that No One In Particular is,” she scoffed.
Suddenly, the sound of an angelic chorus filled the air. A bright light sifted through the stained glass, gliding across the room and into a darkened corner.
The corner was occupied by a scythe. Not just any scythe, but a magic scythe, used for slicing the souls from dead bodies, which might or might not be the bodies of women. It glinted in the narrow stream of light from the window, and the translucent blue blade shimmered like the sun.
It was like an omen, a vision. The light and the singing could not have been a coincidence.
Actually, it was. The maid, who was tired of listening to Death’s infernal grunge rock, had turned on some classical music, and the window wiper, who hadn’t been to work in years, was finally getting around to cleaning the windows.
Phyllis, however, was not aware of this, and took it as a sign. A sign that she must do something.
She grabbed the scythe. It looked heavy, but it was light as a feather. It was larger than a feather, however, and far more dangerous, and normally feathers do not have a menacing glow. She slung the scythe over her shoulder, amazed at the little effort that it took.
She was going to go down to earth. Death’s job couldn’t be all that hard; she would just slice a few souls and come back before her husband knew what she’d done. It was a perfect plan.
Except for the fact that she needed to sneak out of the mansion first.
The only logical way to try and conceal it was to hide it behind her back, and even this didn’t work. The blade stuck out at an odd angle to the right of her head, and the handle dragged along behind her like a wooden tail. She prayed that if anyone saw her, they would be extremely near-sighted.
She crept along the dark corridors, jumping at every little noise. She nearly had a heart attack when the window wiper slipped off his scaffolding and fell screaming into a rosebush. After calming herself, she made a mental note to lower his pay. And if he had died, she would lower his pay posthumously. She continued along the corridor.
She was almost to the front door when she heard a noise. It sounded like an ostrich singing with a head cold, and if you have ever heard a singing ostrich with a head cold, it’s enough to make you stop in your tracks.
Phyllis stopped in her tracks.
The noise came from the scullery maid, who was staring straight at Phyllis, a pensive and wistful look on her face.
“Romeo,” she murmured.
Death’s wife was quite taken aback. “Pardon?” she sniffed, surprised.
“Deny thy father and refuse thy name! Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, and I'll no longer be a Capulet.”
Phyllis blinked. “Speak English!”
“Hot dog! I’m sure to win the Scullery Maid Talent Show this year!” the maid exclaimed. Grinning, she took a dirty script from her apron and thumbed through it rapidly.
“Answer your mistress!” Death’s wife shrieked, utterly confused.
The scullery maid showed no sign of acknowledgement.
After working out the most horrendous insult she could think of, she realized that perhaps the girl could not see her. She waved around a bit. No response.
“So that’s how he does it,” Phyllis breathed. “That’s how no one knows what Death looks like. They can’t see or hear him, because of this scythe. I must say, I’m impressed.”
She made a rude gesture at the maid and dashed away laughing.
She came to a rapid halt at the edge of the cloud, dumbstruck. There was only one more obstacle preventing her from reaching the ground.
It was a whole lot of distance.
She didn’t move a single sinewy muscle in her body. She considered taking out a cigarette and smoking it to calm her nerves, but then decided against it. Inexplicably, bad things always seemed to happen to smokers.
Her clammy fingers slowly and steadily lost their grip on the scythe, and it slipped out of her grasp.
As it fell forward, Phyllis’ world seemed to go in slow motion. The wind stopped howling. Her voice was slowed down and distorted as she screamed, “NO!”
Everything moved so slowly that the scythe didn’t seem to be moving.
The scythe wasn’t moving.
It had fallen until it was horizontal, and then it hovered in midair. Phyllis blinked.
“That’s never happened before,” she said, surprised.
She gingerly poked it with her toe. It quivered, but otherwise didn’t move. She pushed down on it with her heel. It sank slightly, but seemed as sturdy as a scythe hovering in midair is able to seem.
“It’s like a witch’s broomstick,” she said with awe, “only you have to be careful not to sit on the metal part.”
She winced as she thought of this.
Cautiously, she slid onto the handle, eyes closed tightly.
It shot off like a rocket, right down into the midst of a sleepy town that sat nestled in the sharp mountains below. Like glue, Phyllis stuck to the handle. Also like glue, she was very, very white.
The glue comparison, however, ends at the moment she was about to collide with a castle wall. Glue, if it was flying through the air at the rate Phyllis was, would splat against the stones and ooze down the masonry. Death’s wife, however, went right through.
She tumbled into a busy ballroom, apparently a masquerade or fancy costume party.
No one seemed to notice her. Each of the pig-faced ladies twirled with the hog-faced gentlemen, the pale-faced princesses twirled with the tan-faced princes, and the old blind guy in the corner danced with an empty suit of armor. Everyone seemed happy.
Phyllis sat up, rubbing her aching forehead and blinking her eyes against the differently-colored skirts that mopped the floor in kaleidoscopic patterns. She gripped her scythe nervously, trying to reassure herself that she was completely invisible. However, even if you are invisible, it’s rather unnerving to fly straight through a seemingly solid wall.
She was recollecting her senses on the perfectly waxed dance floor when a particularly nasty-looking girl waltzed through the doors, looking like a princess. In a nasally voice, she reprimanded her servants, reprimanded her cowering boyfriend, even reprimanded the chattering group of old people trying to greet her.
Phyllis was appalled. “Even I’m not as snotty as that!” she cried.
And suddenly, something happened. A very painful something indeed.
A chandelier, possibly cut by some young cad on the stairway, was gravitating toward the obnoxious princess at an alarming rate.
It also hit her at an alarming rate, and she died instantly.
Phyllis grinned. “Finally! Some action around here!”
All of the party guests stopped dancing. It was incredible, the silence that followed.