The Girl Who Fell Through (Sample)

This is a brief sample from "The Girl Who Fell Through" from my collection of short stories "A Chorus of Wolves" soon to be released by Booktrope Publishing. If you enjoy this story, please take a moment to review it at any of the online bookstores. While you are there check out my other books available for purchase. http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B008C4DY04 I sincerely appreciate your time and interest in my writing. Thank you very much.

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-The Girl who Fell Through-

by Alex Kimmell

      My name is Pall. I’m Death. No, really. I met your great grandparents and their great grandparents too. I even know some of your parents and your friends. Sucks for you, but it’s kind of my job. That made me sound like an asshole. Sorry. I’m really a pretty nice guy. That is, when I’m a guy. I’ve been female on occasion. I try to appear in such a way that my customers will be comfortable as possible. See? I’m nice. Right?

      My job’s pretty cool. I’ve seen the entire world and I get to know lots of people. Every person at some point actually. The hours are tough. I don’t get too many breaks and I can’t remember my last long vacation. But, I think I spent it someplace cold and unpopulated. I like snow. It’s pretty.

      Building a social life is tough in this job. I can’t stay in one place for too long, so forming a lasting relationship becomes quite the challenge. Though, the past few years did make things a little easier for me. The Internet with email and social networking sites help out a lot. I can drop into my network on my phone whenever I want, no matter where I am. Plus I can check my schedule to see who lives near where I’m going to be, whenever I do get some down time.

      I don’t date much unfortunately. I’d like to. Most people get freaked out when they read the job description on my profiles. I have one set up as a man and the other one is, well, you know. In case you’re wondering, I filled them out truthfully. Mistake number one. The parade of synapse misfires that contacted me seemed never ending.

      There was this Goth chick named Psycofantia with the obvious rebellion tattoos, studs in her cheeks and the ever so attractive anarchy symbol implant under the skin of her forehead. She liked to play Russian roulette with a Colt 45 shoved up her cooter. “Am I gonna die now?” Click. “How about now?” click. When the gun misfired, she actually got pissed off at me that she didn’t die.

      You must have seen reports in the news about that priest who raped the little blind children in Texarkana? Remember the lawyer who worked diligently to make sure his client wasn’t convicted? Yeah, that scumbag asked me to meet him in a no-tell on Pleasantville Pike North-west of Providence. He took off every scrap of clothing but a three hundred dollar pair of custom made shoes. He was reflective as a calm lake at dawn before the first breath of wind ripples over the surface. The freshly shaved skin of his shins scabbed from razor cuts was still moist. I know this because he didn’t wear socks. He wanted me to iron his black, custom tailored suit, fold the creases neatly and rest it gently on top of the motel dresser. He hung himself from a scratchy, frayed rope tied to a hook that we screwed into the ceiling. When I left he was still dangling there, fingers furiously tugging at his unimpressively small mutton dagger.

      Abnormally Dissolved Foetus, a really shitty Scandinavian death metal band responded to my Craigslist ad inviting me to a show in the Oliwa forest outside of Gdansk. They were set up in an area littered with crosses and stone covered grave mounds on a dark, storm encrusted night. Of course they were. Where else would they be?