Short Stories

Death is a Women

    The story of death is quite simple. She spends most of her waking hours collecting the souls of the damned. It seemed fun at first. That's how she roped into this thing in the first place. But when you've done it for millennia, it gets rather boring. Hearing the same lines, the same pleas for mercy. She begged for change, for something to disrupt her routine. Perhaps that is what you offered her today.
    As she stood before you, you did not run away. You didn't even flinch. You just opened your arms and accepted the fate that came with a visit from death. For the first time, she hesitated. She hesitated because she saw no fear in your eyes. Instead she saw hope. Alas, she still had to collect your soul.
Yours was a soul unlike any other she had seen. Many souls before you had been dull, gray, and dim. But yours was warm, and bright. This both comforted her and confused her. Both entirely new emotions. She held it in her hands for a minute, completely mesmerized. She then slipped you into a small jar. Separate from all the other souls she had collected that day. She knew when it came time, she couldn't hand you in. not today. You were special.