The Final Battle with Death

One day a man was walking along a road. It was a normal day. He had a newspaper tucked under his arm and his collar turned up to protect him for the winter wind. The leaves had deserted the tree’s to seek solace on the ground. He glanced at the child in the pram that looked at the world through such innocent eyes; eyes that saw the different shades of green on a blade of grass, that saw the animals of cloud in the sky. The child giggled because to her the world was good. In a baby’s world there is no hurt, no-one feels pain. But this man was not a child.

              He was growing old and his eyes were tired. His soul was crippled by the pain that the child was yet to experience. His heart was broken because of the love that had been drained from it with no return. As he carried along the path he came across a hooded figure. A figure he knew to be Death. He nodded his head at the creature. The scythe that Death held glittered quietly in the winter sun, the man couldn’t help but notice the irony in the beauty of it’s shine.

              The man carried on towards his home and was followed closely by the cloaked figure of Death. They walked silently in unified steps. When the man sat himself down on his bed, Death stood silently at the threshold. The man reached under his bed and grasped the handle of his gun. He caressed the cool metal of his saviour. He raised the mouth of the gun and allowed it to kiss the temple of his forehead. His finger stroked the trigger. The man closed his eyes and sighed partly in relief and partly in despair.

              Death dropped his hood. He did not smile. He simply said, “My child, it is not your time.” The man’s eyes snapped open in recognition. He noticed that Death was his father, was his mother. Death was his dear grand mother who baked the best cakes in the world. Death was the grandfather who taught him to swim. The man began to cry. He reached out to touch his loved ones.

“I want to be with you.”

“My child, it is not your time.” Death repeated.

“I can’t be alone anymore.” The man confessed, allowing the tears to swim down his cheeks.

“My child, it is not your time.”

“Is that all you can say?” The man yelled, the sadness he had compressed bubbled over now as anger. “Is that all the comfort you can offer me? Your son, your grandson?”

“My child, it is not your time.” His loved ones said in unison through the harsh smile that crept onto the mouth of Death. The man could no longer imagine a world worth living in, he was too tired to pretend he could.

“Know that I love you.” He said to his loved ones. “Know that I do not commit this act in defeat, but in triumph. Because, Death, you do not tell me when my time will come. You may feel a sadistic happiness in my pain, for you have been the cause of most of the anguish I endure. But do not think that I am surrendering. I am going to visit those you have stolen from me.” The man wiped the tears from his worn eyes. Death watched helpless, snarling at the man.

“I win.” The man whispered. Smiling, he pulled the trigger.

Reviews

[WallyM]

This is pretty good. As with every beginning/novice/soon-to-be-maybe-up-and-coming-writer, however, I felt speed-bumps (as we call them in the States).

I would have postponed revealing the hooded figure's identity as long as possible, and avoid any hints thereof long as possible (like the scythe). One might postpone revealing the gun, too.

I am viciously critical of my own writing. I simplify where I can, clarify where I can, and/or just try stuff that "sounds" better.

In this case I might say, "collar turned against the frosty wind", "the leaves had abandoned the trees for the solace of the ground", "eyes that beheld a newer green on every blade of grass", "the man carried on for home, the cloak with its owner close behind.", "'I don't want to be alone anymore,' said the man. The tears swam down his cheeks, finally.", ...etc., etc. You get the point.

Are they one a path or a road? Like actors as they improvise on the stage, writers must make decisions and stick with them.

I recommend to everyone who has even just a notion about writing to read Dave Eggers' short story "After I Was Throw In The River And Before I Drowned". It is an entire writing class all by itself.

[absolutefolie]

This really gripped me. I love the way you personified death, and how it was the man's family. Amazing.