Author's Commentary
Something I wrote in my head between visiting the Ming Tomb, and the Great Wall.
I slumped forward, as I trudged down the suburban street to my home. A few thick text books weighed down my backpack, making my spine and shoulders ache. I’m not really sure why I was in school; I hated it. I didn’t have a job, though, so I suppose I needed something to occupy my time.
How many times has I taken this walk, car-less, weighed down by “knowledge”? Frustrated, I dropped my backpack to the ground. I leaned against a building, to rest my sore muscles. I decided I wanted to yell (luckily, no one was around), and I felt vaguely poetic.
“May Death himself remove this burden from my back!” I felt proud of myself. A nice little play on words. I almost patted myself on the back for that one. Then something caught my eye.
As if out of the fog, it appeared. I say this, because it had that affect of something menacing appearing from a screen of mist. But it was a clear day. It just happened to appear out of nowhere. And it looked like a tractor.
As it neared, I saw spinning jaws at the front of the machine. It was all black, perhaps an ominous omen in that cheery sunlight. At the control, I saw a hooded figure. I decided it would be a good idea to either run, scream, or do both. Naturally, I just stood there and stared.
The tresher stopped next to me, and the black phantom descended slowly from his machine. His face was totally invisible behind the cloth of his good. Rather curious, I noted, seeing as it was mid-spring, and I was sweating in a t-shirt and shorts.
“You called?” came a voice from the abyss behind the food. I stood for a few moments processing this. I shrugged; either I was doomed, or I was in luck.
“Want to give me a ride back to my place?” He looked at me. Well, I think he did. He was facing me at least. It was as menacing as a cold stare.
“Sure,” he shrugged.
It was kind of awkward, as I guided him to the ten blocks to my apartment. I watched as his gaunt, pale hands gripped the controls, as he maneuvered the massive machine rather smoothly. Though we passed other cars, no one really seemed to notice.
“So, uh… you’re Death?” I asked, trying to make conversation. I took the movement of his hood as a nod. I was hoping for a more verbal response. “So, where’s the scythe?”
“Oh, that’s so old-style and cumbersome. Just because I’m an ageless entity doesn’t mean I can’t keep with the times.” I nodded. Noted that it “made sense.”
“Much less work on my part,” he added. “Just find the souls I need to take, and ‘bloop’ ‘bloop’ ‘bloop’, this thing picks ‘em up.”
“That’s the sound they make, huh? ‘Bloop’?” Death chuckled.
“Here, I’ll show ya.”
We approached a man, probably in his fifties, dragging his feet along the sidewalk. The Reaper handed me a gun. I looked at him, confused.
“Shoot him. Just do it,” he said, persuasively.
“But…” I started.
“Don’t worry. He can’t see us. I promise you, you won’t get caught. It’ll be painless,” he assured me. I shrugged, lifted the barrel of the handgun, and tugged at the trigger. Right through the forehead.
“Nice aim,” Death commented. A bloody body was now lying on the sidewalk. I felt sorry for the poor guy, as we proceeded to roll towards the corps, and then right over it.
Bloop
“Holy crap, you’re right!”
I pointed out my building as “the one on the left with the dying palm tree.” I hopped out, and thanked the cloaked stranger for the ride. As I turned to walk to my door, he pulled me back with a “Hey!”
“Do you want to hang out some more? I really don’t have anything important to do.” I contemplated this. I didn’t have anything else to do, either. I wanted to say something that sounded worldly.
“When in Rome,” I said, nonchalantly.
“I don’t think that idiom really relates to the situation.” I opened my mouth to defend myself, but I decided to cut my losses.
“Let me drop off my backpack, and I’ll be back in a minute.”
“So, you’re the Grim Reaper?” I asked, after I climbed back into the combine harvester.
“Yup. Not many people know this, but not only do I take life, I make it.”
“Really?” This was interesting. I watched as my Deathly driver worked around traffic casually and illegally. I guess they couldn’t see us.
“I plant the souls so I may Reap them later. You can only Reap what you Sow.”
“Are you the Grim Miller as well?” I added, kidding. Death took a turn through a park. A child was hanging upside down on monkey bars, while his inattentive mother was busy flirting with what she hoped to be a single father.
“No, that’s my friend. But he goes by the title of ‘the Foreboding Miller.’” I looked over at him, not sure if he was joking or not. The kid lost his grip.
Bloop
“Seriously?” We approached a two story house, with a picket fence and well-kept lawn. Death parked his tresher in the driveway.
“Yup. Come on in.”
I followed my friend of Fate through his front door, and into a homey kitchen. He pointed me to a chair at the table, and I sat down. He put on a kettle to make tea.
“Any other friends?”
“Yeah, there’s the Somber Baker. He takes the flour from Miller, and makes bread.” I shifted in my chair. I tried piecing what he was saying together.
“This is all some sort of metaphor, right?”
“Not at all,” Reap said. He placed a British-style dish before me, containing several slices of bread. He also pushed towards me a butter dish.
“So… they whole reason behind life is…”
“Bread. We get hungry, too. Try some, it’s really good.” I picked up a suspicious, though honestly tasty-looking slice composed of the souls of my fallen comrades. Slowly and carefully, I took a bite.
“Wow, this is REALLY good!” Death nodded knowingly, and picked up a piece for himself. He buttered it heavily, and lifted it to his hidden face. It returned with a missing bitemark. The kettle started to whistle. I added butter to my bread, and took another bite.
“Even better! So the bread comes from the souls of the living. Where does the butter come from?” Death placed a steaming teacup on a saucer before me, and then sat down with another across from me. He took a sip.
“California.”
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