Fight in the Shade By jgjgj The rice field the army advanced on was muddy & noisy, and explosive sloshes of feet made things awkward for the men behind us. Working tirelessly until the emblems blotched on our metal chests were half covered with muddied water, and faces, with panting- pained- expressions. Jostled by wooden spear shafts, knees, and arms attached to peasants looking at the ground instead of what was in front of them. Screams of men trampled in the foreground made the summer air even hotter and louder. And when I was about to fall over, Lieutenants down the strip of the hoard shouted something familiar over the water- feet- sloshes, and we all came to a halt parallel to an army maybe a half-mile to. I caught my breath, and my eyes narrowed to the scene around the opposing force; a stretch of flat rice fields blotched by a distant brownish-red-black band of men with spears that sparkled under the hot sun. My stomach absorbed me, and I turned away instinctually to what I thought was more comforting. I almost wanted to throw up as a waft of perspiration and bad body odor hit my nostrils, and I was brought back into reality. Scrawny elderly men draped in their uniform and hanging on for dear life on their spears, mumbling peasants whispering Buddhist prayers as they looked to what lay before them, and the young- around 15 years of age- dully looking towards the ground, most likely finding the sight as sickening as I had. We were the dull cutting blade of the main army, and that was the point. But with that thought, I became curious and wondered if the same could be said about the opposing force. But not even one of us could have that smidge of hope, as multiple tiny spears sparkled movement in the distance making little dark gaps in their lines, reminding the worst to come. Flag signals liaise with the main army to the vanguard, and the final decision was made as Lieutenants made a call to space their lines out. As we stumbled into position, cries of men unfortunate enough to be spotted by Lieutenants for a lack of movement were heard around the accompanying lines, but no one was energetic enough to look, much less care. A call to march was made, and lines of men splashed one by one almost in sync. As we got closer and closer, the feeling in my stomach almost engulfed my body. And after a while, no one looked at their feet. Death was looming in the distance, and with every binding step I made into my future– I took a step into heaven. We were sheep falling into the sparkling teeth and red maw of a glorious dragon, and as faithful to my mind’s eye, a flicker of fire burst out of the dark gaps of the monster’s jaws and arched from the heavens: consuming in sharp burning pains indiscriminately. And… Read more »

Death Spectacle
By Lightly Sugared Coffee

“He should be the last one, right?”

Someone’s voice rouses him from his slumber. Before he has the chance to look around, a pretty blonde is pulling him up, her blue eyes barely looking at him.

“Wha-”

The woman ignores him, continuing to discuss things he fails to understand with her companions. A blood red moon hangs in the cloudless sky. The night air chills his skin, filled with the scent of earth and decay. He takes a moment to look back and nearly faints from fright.

“Who are you? Where am I? Did you just pull me out of a coffin and what in the holy is that thing?!”

Said thing is a dead, eyeless dog, monstrously huge with someone’s hand sticking out of its mouth.

His outburst finally catches their attention.

“What?” another woman says. “We have a newcomer?”

“Just ignore him,” the blonde from before snorts.

He stares at them in disbelief.

“I’ll talk to him.” The speaker is a male this time, his black hair tied low and slung over his shoulder.

The group grumbles a little but eventually concedes. The man signals for him to follow which he does after some hesitation.

“My name is Yangkang,” he introduces. “What’s yours?”

“Castor, but everyone calls me Cas.”

“You look young.” Yangkang’s eyes flick up and down, taking in his appearance. “How old are you?”

“Um.” Castor considers how much information he should be sharing with a complete stranger but remembers his circumstances and decides otherwise. “Nineteen.”

“Young,” the other repeats. “A pity.”

“A pity?”

“Everyone you see here is dead.”

“N-no way.”

“There are higher beings using us as entertainment.” His smile is sardonic. “The profits of such a business are obvious.”

Castor blinks.

“You saw that monster.” Yankgkang holds out his hand to him. “Things will get nasty, but I will try to help you ‘live’.”

Castor notes how it is bloody with painfully cracked nails.

Maybe he wasn’t the only one to wake in a coffin.

Castor takes the offered limb, squeezing down with a smile.

“I’ll be in your care then.”

Fly
By Taja DaLeen

“Come, fly with me!”

Thanks to my cleverness they all follow me. And due to the promise of never ending fun and youth; no responsibilities, no growing up, nothing to impede on simply enjoying the moment.

“What is it like? Will there be fairies or things to fear?”

That’s what they all ask. What it’s like? Well, it’s a trip. The second one to the right and then straight on until morning light; a trip to somewhere everyone wants to go.

Or, that’s what they think.

There might even be fairies, if one’s lucky. If you want to consider them fairies. But no, nothing to fear.

It will be quick.

My main targets are children, obviously. The more youthful, and gullible, the better.

All praise to innocence.

“This is amazing!”

This one’s just the same as all the others; still so young, still able to see magic everywhere. A true believer. It didn’t take long to teach her how to fly.

And how she loves it. Everything about it; the freedom, the pure joy and adrenaline. Up and down she flies, round and round in circles.

It is quite lovely to watch her, to listen to her laughter. She’s clearly enjoying herself; living in the moment.

Tasting every second of it.

“They’re so cute!”

And she’s one of the lucky ones, the fairy birds love her. Flying with her and around her, sparkling and shining bright. With huge eyes she regards them, and is even able to pet one.

But everything has to end, eventually. That’s life. Giggling she flies into the light; and then – falls.

Just like that.

Just like that, she fell into my trap. Her flying was all it took for her to end up in my ritualistic circle; and the rest is history.

I would be sorry, but business is business. It’s nothing personal, dear.

And as long as there’s people paying well for staying young just that little bit longer, business will stay business.

the family business
by Donovan

He saw the way the villagers glanced away from him, like they were guilty of something only he had seen. He had been the town’s executioner for six years now, since his father retired, and he had settled into the role. It wasn’t a poor life, in material concerns. He was paid a living wage, his house was enough for two families, though it lodged only his father and himself. His mother had died three years before, of consumption. He never forgot the faces of the villagers that day, even the priest. The awkward conflicted mingling of sympathy and disregard.

It was taboo, to work with death. The filth of it crept into every corner of a life; clung to anything he touched. The men he killed were not fair warriors, fighting on the equal grounds of battle. They were wretches, desperate and filthy, and that filth clung to him, to his whole family.

He remembered what his father had told him, as he trained him to chop pumpkins with a sword that had no point.

“They will need you, Michael, to put terrible men to death. But they will never thank you. It’s a gruesome business, one most men wouldn’t have the stomach to dirty their hands with. But it’s your duty to do it right. To make a clean and somber cut.”

Yet the crowds always gathered to watch. This gruesomeness that tainted him didn’t seem to touch the onlookers that flocked to see men beheaded. That was the way of it. They needed him.

He remembered one, a boy of only seventeen, last winter. The young man had broken into the home of an elderly couple to steal. When the husband awoke and caught him, yelling for the guards, the boy had strangled him. That killer on the execution block didn’t seem as cold as his crime. The boy was pale and shaking like a lamb, he cried for mercy, and for his mother. Michael cut his head off, he didn’t think many other men could.

The Headsman
by Charles Funk

I found him encamped on the usual outskirts of town. Hidden around the road’s bend from passing view.

“You are the headsman, yes?” I asked, joining his campfire.

“What gave that away?” he retorted snidely without raising his head. Preferring to stoke the flames while motioning to his sword propped beside him. More like a headstone than any blade I’ve seen with its massive size and wide cross-guard. The only thing of worth or shined among his ragged belongings.

Looking at it gave me chills and it apparently showed.

“Most folks leave by then.” He said.

“Most folks are idiots.”

That gave him pause and a reason to finally turn to me with a pair of cold eyes that made my own grow wide and unsettled.

“And which idiot are you?” he asked.

“I-I’ve seen you. M-many times.” I stammered. “From the rooftops, I watch you…parading folks to the block while we cheer that grow loud for every head and swing. But none for you. Instead, you’re jeered. Chased out. And paid with coins at your feet. So…why do they hate you?”

“Why don’t you?” He raised a brow.

“You kill scum but are treated worse than scum when you should be praised.”

“I paid no mind as long as I’m paid well.” He shrugged. “That’s the only praise I deserve for this trade.”

“But it’s not fair.” I pressed.

“Oh, but it is.” He replied. “Even filth deserve justice. And I provide just that. Vindication. Absolution. Dirtying my hands so as theirs would be clean. Even if that filth stays with me forever.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Pray you never do.” He said and nothing more. Leaving me with a riddle that brought more questions than answers.

Time would make me forget all that though. Our talk. His name. We did not meet again until years later when I found him atop the scaffold in front of all. Only when he raised his blade did I finally found the answer to that riddle years ago. His sword was not a headstone and instead of fear, I felt only peace.

We Lie Among Giants
By Norman Gray

Only a fool would tempt the evil that lies buried in the Blightlands.

I recount this, the tale of my final burial, as a warning to those fool-hearted enough to press their ear to a gravedigger’s hill.

We were known as Excavators: Undertakers for slain giants. Though much praise is given to the heroes who slay these great beasts, death is merely a slumber for them; it is the Excavators who keep them from returning, subduing them through burial. . . Our graves mar lands where the horizon was once unobscured. Our work is legend; children daring one another to press an ear to any hill they stumble upon, listening for a heartbeat, or a sleeping giant’s breath.

When we came upon the Strider of the Blightlands, it was face-down in the mud, yet still it measured nearly as high as a fortress wall. So, we buried it where it had been slain, upturning the earth beneath it. We dug trenches that encircled the body, in hopes that the Strider’s weight would collapse the ground underneath itself.

Herein lies the danger of our duty. Far too often men are entombed along with the slain; caught in the earthentide, unable to escape a cave-in. Our trenches reached far underground, and time was running short. No longer was there room for caution, as the beast would soon reawaken.

When the soil finally gave way, it moved like floodwater. There was no time; not even our screams could escape. The giant fell into the earth, and we fell with it.

Eighty men, buried in the Blightlands. . . And I, among them.

So I pray, that anyone foolish enough to stand atop this hill, might hear my voice through the cacophony of the dead. . . A heart is beating, and I know for certain that it is not my own. And though my colleagues cry out for help, it is not theirs either, for our fate was sealed long ago.

It is the creature. It stirs.

Do not heed our cries. Disturb not our graves. . . For we lie among giants.

Angel Shot
by: ArtemisSage

“So, what will it be, dearie?”

The lady behind the counter smiled at me, yet it was off. As though she already knew what I had come for. Which likely wasn’t hard. Everyone I had asked for help from said this was the place. And upon seeing this woman, I knew they had been right.

“I… I was told you could help me,”

“I can. For a price,”

That bothered me. Not so much that there was a price, I had figured as much, but the way she had added on the second part. As though it had been an afterthought. And I couldn’t blame her. I didn’t have much money, and given how off-putting she was, I got the sensation she already knew as much.

Yet there was nothing else I could do. I was already at my limit, and this was my last choice. I’d offer every last penny I had if it meant I could get what I came for.

“I don’t have much-”

“Money is of no use here, child. No, the price you must pay is worth the weight of the question,”

That confused me. How could a question carry with it any weight? But she wasn’t turning me away. Which told me that, at the very least, she was willing to hear my request. Yet, how could I ask straight out? This wasn’t anything I had ever said completely to myself, let alone aloud to someone else.

“Well, see, I don’t really know HOW to ask. I’ve kept this to myself for so long that I don’t really have the words for it anymore,”

“Only if you can ask the question may I provide you assistance,”

Damn woman. She knew full well why I was here, yet felt the need to make me say it out loud for the world to hear. And why not, she could simply hand me over once I said my piece and she’d never get in trouble.

“How much…? How much to stop my husband?”

“Treasure Hunters”

By: Arith_Winterfell

It was inky black in the hallway. We were down in the Abyssal Zone of the city and only our headlamps pushed back the darkness.

Crack. Hiss. The fumes of the old sealed up apartment retched out into the hallway.

“Think we’ll find anything in this tomb, Michelle. Other than old junk, I mean,” Rastaran said.

“I certainly hope so,” I said from behind my breathing mask as I leaned harder into the crowbar.

The door cracked open just wide enough to get us inside.

Our lights, the only lights down here, pierced the long untouched darkness of the tomb. We surveyed the tomb. Glittering trophies to accomplishments now meaningless, the glint of an old video monitor now long out of date, and the loose bones of its former owner resting in an old recliner. It was the mold and old bacteria that was dangerous down here. That’s what kept us wearing the masks and hazmat suits.

Rastaran entered the room and shook his head. “Well, some of this could be sold as scrap I guess,” he sighed.

“Start searching anyway,” I muttered.

Rastaran headed into one of the backrooms sending up a trail of dust that danced in his wake. I still marveled at the durability of the ancient construction. The use of anti-gravity tech helped too. Still, these old tombs were holding up several miles of buildings rising into the skies.

I shook my head to clear my thoughts and began digging through one of the drawers. Suddenly I noticed something odd. An old credit chip, and credits are always good. I linked it to my datapad and saw it listed several thousands of credits. Jackpot!

I turned to tell Rastaran our good fortune, but then I saw the blood pooling from the room he’d gone into. Something blind and insectile shuddered in the dark of that room. I turned and ran.

Seine
By Cheezesammich

I remember the first time the hunters came, their ship cutting through the sky, an obsidian nightmare on an azure vista.

It was like night had come for us. The fear was instant. Before we could react, before we knew to react, a great invisible force had enveloped us. After the chaos that followed, I found myself alone, watching as my entire family was lifted into the great darkness of the ship above, never to be seen again.

I hoped that day would never come again, but my hope was futile.

Now, as I sit within a storm of my panicked neighbours, staring up at the obsidian nightmare once more, I wonder what purpose my hope served. I feel the invisible force surrounding us again. I look up at the hunter’s ship, growing in the distance as we’re lifted ever higher. My fear is gone. I know my fate is inescapable.

We break through the sky and I am rendered breathless. I can barely register the world above; it’s impossibly dry and cold. My body struggles beyond reason, jackknifing against the heaviness of my own head.

I see the hunter’s ship for what it truly is, a massive behemoth of black stone with surfaces smoother than the sky on the quietest of days. In the middle, a last vision of horror- thousands of bodies piled carelessly in a writhing, fleshy heap. As I feel my neighbours dying below me, I know that we are next.

As my vision grows dark, I see the hunters for the first time – gargantuan creatures with four tentacles, like bulbous squids. They defy explanation. One of them reaches out with its two highest tentacles, each of them split at the end into five smaller branches. I look at the hunter’s face and witness sunken, swollen eyes staring back at me.

As the force field opens and we spill out onto the ground in front of the hunter, its impossible size is made real. As my vision clouds over completely and I am crushed by the dead around me, I am left only with questions.

I Met Death and He Roasted Me

By Joe

(CW: Reference to Suicide)

Garrett woke up to a void and a skeleton at a desk wearing an all black suit and tie. He assumed it was Death, but instead of a scythe Death held a pen.

“12/25/2087, 4:10 a.m. Cause of death: Suicide by overdose,” Death sighed. “Again.”

“Damn! I’m sorry. Did you expect a more glorified death?”

“Not really an expectation when you can point out depressed loners who’re going to off themselves during the holidays.”

“Hey, fuck you!” Garrett flipped Death the bird.

“That the finger that took your virginity?”

“That the desk they bend you…” Garrett’s mouth shut suddenly, as if forced closed.

“We’re straying off subject,” said Death. “You killed yourself. And now your here. Before you can continue you must admit as to why.”

Garrett’s jaw was released. “You already said why. It’s the holiday’s and I was lonely.”

“And depressed,” Death raised a finger.

“Yeah,” Garrett said passive aggresively. “That to.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why were you lonely and depressed?”

“What is this a therapy session?!” Garrett threw up his hands. “I thought you were supposed to escort me to the afterlife!”

“Technically you’re in the afterlife. You’re dead, therefore no longer living. You can’t go back. Only onto what’s next.”

“And what’s that?”

Death didn’t answer. Garrett already knew why and let out a long sigh.

“Because look at me,” He said glumly, and paused.

“I understand.”

“Pff. Do you?”

“Your right. I don’t.” Death said sarcastically. “I just meet people regularly who off themselves because of insecurities, and feel no validation for their preferences, no matter how right or wrong they are. But what do I know?”

“And mine?”

“Do you really want to feel validated by a diety, or by the people who were alive with you since day one?”

Garrett hung his head.

Death sighed. “It’s not my job to care, it’s my job to make sure the soul is worthy for another chance. Hopefully, you’ll find caring people in the next life.”

Garrett looked up. “You mean…”

Death lifted their hand. “Live again…and don’t give up this time.”

Tale of a bloody showman
By Boople

“You know, I never did ask how you got all those scars.”

The crackle of the fire and the ambiance of the woods around them filled the silence that trailed the question. The two sat together to avoid getting smoked out by their source of heat, and being next to each other the boy could see from the flickering light that his question had made his new associate lost in thought. Under the shifting shadows was a face steeped in nostalgia and concern, and after a soft exhale he turned to face the little boy.

“I was a gladiator. I killed people, and the scars-” he casually gestured to his gnarled torso “-came when they fought back.”

These words lit up the little boy’s face, to him it was like he was next to an Olympian or some famous athlete, he’d been a fan of gladiators for most of his short life. The cheering, the food, the showmanship and the fun he had in the stands were some of his favorite moments. This reaction produced a conflicted face on the gladiator. He drew in a long breath.

“You know they didn’t want to die right?”

Silence had once again reared its head as the young boy’s ignorant fantasy slowly crumbled. He felt guilty for always getting so swept up in each bloody victory, and as his mind flashed through it all he now seemed to discover that under the drowning roar of the audience was the thump of a body, and peeking through the shifting windows of the cheering crowd was a corpse, ever so still.

“But they expected to. Hell, I thought I would for a while. but that’s what makes it such good entertainment, ya know? Down in the dirt, sword in hand, you never hear the crowd, or the announcer, or nothing. Just the ringing of metal and the rush of your own blood.” The Gladiator shifted on the log the two were sitting on, turning blankly back to the fire.

“Even that loses its charm after a while, then it just feels like a job.”

Duty
by Iosef Paramonov

As the Soldier lay on the ground, there was a fluttering to his side. Faintly, he could see a raven standing there, peeking at him curiously.

“Checkin’ which part of me is the tastiest?” grinned the Soldier weakly.

“It’s nothing personal. I have to eat.” said the Raven.

The Soldier chuckled before coughing up a smattering of blood. He pressed harder on the wound at his side.

“I s’pose at this point, I shouldn’t be surprised to hear a bird talkin’.” he said.

The Raven shrugged. It glanced around at the harrowing mess that littered the valley.

“Why?” it asked, “Why do you kill each other?”

“Duty.” said the Soldier through ragged breaths.

The Raven squinted. “Duty?” it said, “What’s that?”

“In this case,” rasped the Soldier, “Our duty is to protect our country from another country.”

“What is a country?”

“Where a group of people live,” said the Soldier, “Has its own leader.”

“And how do you tell one country from another?”

“Borders. They’re lines that separate countries.”

“Lines?” The Raven looked around. “What do these lines look like?”

A sudden burst of laughter startled the Raven, who hopped back a little way. Through bloodied teeth, the soldier said, “You can’t see ’em. Invisible.”

“So you’re saying,” said the Raven slowly, “That you’re duty is to… protect invisible lines… that dictate where you live?”

“Yep. That’s right.”

The Raven shook its head. It didn’t understand.

“But why do countries attack each other?” it asked.

“Because its leader ordered it.”

“But what for? Do they know how many people will get killed? Are there no other solutions?”

“Don’t ask me, bird!” yelled the Soldier, causing the Raven to flap backwards in fright, “I just do what they tell me!”

“Even if it means killing another one of your species?”

“Yeah, that’s right!” cried the Soldier, tears dripping down his cheeks, “Even if… even if…”

His sentence broke away in sobs.

The Sun began to set. Silence filled the field. After a good while, the Raven hopped over near the Soldier’s head. It began to peck at his skull.

Business with Death
J. J. Peterson

“You may enter.”

The doors fell silently closed behind me as Death motioned for me to take a seat opposite him at a table that stretched across the whole length of the room.

As I sat down Death pushed back from the table and spun around on his chair, hands behind his head, and asked, “What can I do for you today, dear Life.”

Leaning forward onto the table, I answered, “I noticed a new soul in your waiting room. By the name of Kenneth Johnsohn. He’s not ready to go yet.”

“He’s not ready to go yet,” Death mimicked. “Well too bad, everyone passes through my hands eventually.”

“Yes, and I thank you for that. But Kenneth is still needed on earth. I have plans for him, he still will change much in the short span of his life.”

“Another soul who will make a few lonely kids happy by buying them an ice cream cone?”

“Mock me all you want,” I defended, “But it is those few happy moments that shape a childhood to become the bright backstory to a wonderful life that will send waves of goodness through all those it touches.”

As usually happened at these points, Death started to get uptight and ornery, “You can’t make me, everyone must come to me.”

“I know, but for Kenneth you will have to wait a bit longer. And actually I can make you. Here is the form authorising the stay of Kenneth Johnsohn on earth until circumstances dictate otherwise, please sign.”

“I won’t.” Death actually stuck out his lower lip.

I stood up so I was looking down on him, and ordered, “Death, I command you to sign the paper and release this soul back into my jurisdiction.”

“Fine.” He grabbed a pen and hurriedly signed his name on the line, “But don’t think I’ll keep letting you get away with this, Life.”

“Only the ones who are still needed,” I said, grabbing the form and leaving the room. I had other business to attend to now.

The Merchant (Frontier Universe)
By Alex Nightingale (aka Spectre)

If Talia didn’t know better, she would have said that the man in front of her was just some regular merchant. A merchant he was, yes, but not one she usually tolerated in the harbour of Keene. She remembered seeing his airship multiple times, searching it almost every time, but never finding enough evidence for an arrest.

Reynard was cunning.

And to think that her one chance to finally arrest him, would be hindered by Locke. All for his pathetic deal and pathetic plans.

She hated the fact that she was forced to make a deal with Reynard, the man who smuggled weapons to the Frontier’s most notorious criminal elements.

She approached him, her expression making it clear that he was not wanted. Reynard gave her that smile she detested so much.

“Talia,” he grinned. “Back for another tour of my ship?”

“Save it,” she snarled. “I’m here to make you an offer.”

“Now that intrigues me. Officer Talia herself wants to make a deal. Weren’t you the one who called me an undertaker with extra steps?”

“The offer isn’t mine. It’s Locke’s.”

At this, Reynard perked. He didn’t say anything, but his expression said everything.

“I want weapons,” she forced out.

She didn’t have a problem with weapons per se, only with the people using them.

“In exchange,” she continued. “You will not be bothered by the authorities. I will see to that, personally.”

If Talia could have swallowed acid instead of saying that, she would have.

“I will hold you to that,” Reynard said, his smile widening. “I must say, I didn’t expect you to be the one too…”

“Let me make one thing perfectly clear,” Talia snarled. “You will deliver your weapons to me or my contact, but part of the deal is that you will no longer sell to the Spear-Carriers, the underground or anyone with a criminal history. Only me or Locke. If you break that promise, I will throw you off the edge of this floating island myself. You’re not the only one who can deal in death.”

Stillness
by Aracnarquista

The city is still. I can’t help, but remember the words: “We are surrounded by stillness, still, we must keep busy; in fact, it is because we are surrounded by stillness that we should keep busy”. My father told me that, time and time again, while he lectured me in our craft. He told me, time and time again, that his father had said the same while he was his apprentice.

One day, I’ll say the same words while I work with my son or daughter, and teach them the craft.

The craft of tending to the dead, of preparing corpses for their final deposition. The craft of the undertaker, the craft of the gravedigger.

We toil with stillness, since the ones we tend to are the dead. We keep ourselves busy, while surrounded by the stillness of death.

We must keep ourselves busy. That’s what differentiate us from our clients.

The city is still. My busy feet brought me here, to this dead place. I walk the silent streets, observed by none but the empty windows and broken doors. A dry smell raises from the dust: the smell of time passed and abandonment, and triggers a memory. A memory from when I last walked this street, by my father’s side. The road to the cemetery.

In that time, long ago, we were accompanied by different men – some alive, two of them dead. Some almost dead, but it would be years still until the realization caught to them. The two who hadn’t realized, but were recognized by all as dead, were our clients. It was the last two I helped put on the ground with my father, before leaving to be the undertaker of another city.

And now, I’m here, shovel in hand, walking to that very same cemetery. All the dead here are on the ground, and still, I’m ready to dig graves again. Father took his secrets to the grave: father took his secrets to the place he taught me all about.

Among those that lie still, I find his resting place.

Hi, father.

Digging is busy work.

Take The Hint, Bro
By Marx

A long sigh hissed through the void. “Hello Duncan…”

Duncan smiled wildly at the voice, oblivious to its irritation. “You know my name!”

“All who live will one day meet me. I know everyone’s name.”

“May I see you, my mistress?”

“I am not your mistress,” said Death, appearing before him. “Take my hand.”

Duncan began to but paused, instinctively knowing what it would mean. “You’re as beautiful as I always knew you’d be. A radiant goddess of perfection. Can’t I… stay here with you?”

“I care not what you think of my appearance. I am not a deity. You cannot stay here. Take my hand.”

“Please, my mistress! I will die for you, but I just-… I love you so much! I just want to be with you! Didn’t you like my gifts?”

Death’s eyes narrowed. “Contrary to what you believe, I do not see murder as a gift. Nor do I see attempts to kill yourself as… intimacy. I see you as a disturbed mortal. Nothing more.”

Duncan’s eyes narrowed back. “I asked you if this was what you wanted! You told me! You told me to prove my love for you and we’d be together!”

Death sighed once more. “I said no such thing. That was your psychosis. Your way of justifying your own ideals and perversions, while using me as an excuse.”

“No! That’s not true!”

“Take my hand, Duncan.”

“Not yet! Let me prove myself to you! I’ll do whatever you want!”

“Excellent. Take my hand.”

Duncan grit his teeth as his hands balled into fists. “Why are you being like this?! Why won’t you give us a chance?”

“Because there is no us. There is you. There is me. And there is my purpose. I have a fated mate. And he is not you.” Before he could protest further, Death forcibly took Duncan’s hand into hers and he was gone.

Death sat in the quiet and scowled. She hated mortals like that. They only succeeded in making her feel lonely.

“I patiently await your arrival, my horseman.” Death mused before returning to her duties.

NecroPetShop
by contract

“Welcome to Zach’s Pet Shop, where yesterday’s pet is today’s puppet !”

Sometimes I hate my brother’s sense of humor.
But I promised I would visit his new business. I guess I should have seen it coming…

I opened the rusty metal door, which has obviously never been cleaned.

“Welcome dear customer ! We are not open today, but you can come back tomorrow ! And remember, bringing your own dead pet gives you a 15% reduction !”

I immediately recognised the usual over the top voice my brother takes when trying to sell his…products.

“It’s me. I was in town, so I decided to see how you were-”

“Brother ! Been a while, since I saw you ! Last time, it was when I did this wonderful sale of old haunted shoes ! About…3 years ago ? Maybe 4, but no more than 5 ! Come, I’m here in the back !” he interrupted, as he loves to do.

I walked through the dusty shop. Clearly, he didn’t bother hiring someone to clean…

As I progress toward the back-shop, the smell of rotting flesh becomes more and more apparent. I guess one or two windows would have been nice…

Finally, I see him, polishing the pearl of his scepter. Probably the only thing I ever saw him cleaning.

“So, how do you find the shop ?”

“It’s alright, I guess. How is business ?”

He took a deep inspiration, which means it was time for me to sit down where I could. I was gonna be here for a while.

“You won’t believe it. Simply wonderful ! Necromancy was really the best career choice I made ! People come with their pets, I put a spell on their corpses and they are as new ! Even better actually, some kill their pets purposely before bringing them here !”

I wanted to protest, but I didn’t have the energy to launch a debate on the questionable origin of his money.

“And that’s not all ! I sometimes use some dead animals I find on the street or in the forest and sell them for such a good price. Do you know how much I can sell a bear for ? It’s just awesome !”

I knew I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t restreint myself any further from asking why there was a boney throne in the back.

“Oh, that ? Another one of my ideas. I sold animals with an expiration date, but with extra functions. People brought back the skeletons for a 5% discount, and I used them to build multiple objects, like this throne. It’s mostly cats and dogs, but I can sell it for a good price.”

“I see you haven’t changed at all.”