* A Shortlisted story in the Open Novella Contest!*
To deal with the recent influx of suicides, Death created a new breed of angels.
His Death Dancers are the souls of those who died too soon, and whose life was filled with happiness and kindness...
Death Dancer: noun. Angel created by Death to save souls on the edge that death isn't ready to accept yet. They 'dance' across vast spaces in seconds, jumping and spinning to get where they are needed.
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I never contemplated how it might be in which I would end up in the situation I find myself in now. At twenty-four years of age and as healthy as anyone could be, death was something I had not been expecting.
Being dead is a peculiar feeling.
Never more so because I had always imagined that death was it- the end. Finite and goodbye! But evidently, it was not. Of course, I had fleetingly hoped that heaven would be there, but it was dismissed as fantasy, nothing more, when I looked around at the cold dark world around me.
There was nothing exciting about my ultimate demise. No failing parachute or mysterious midnight murder on board an express train. Instead it was a sudden bang and I was out like a light. Well, a light that had just been smashed into at 70 miles an hour.
That piece of information had not been known to me when the lights went out. No, that had come from the man- if I could call him... it... that- standing in front of me.
He wasn't what I was expecting. Though to be fair I wasn't sure what I should have been expecting... I guess that one time I stole a penny sweet when I was seven from the sweet shop down the road had counted against me.
I hadn't repented my sin or asked for forgiveness. At least, that's the only reason I could think why the figure of a man with a scythe and long black hooded cloak was standing in front of me right now, rather than the pearly white gates I had at least hoped for in this situation.
It didn't escape my notice that I was also stood on a grassy mound, dewy blades tickling my toes. A small ornate headstone sat to my left, the unmistakable scribe leaving no doubt in my mind.
Ellie Natalia Cartwright, 1992- 2017, beloved daughter, best of friends, will always be missed.
"I'm dead." It was not a question, as such. I asked anyway, looking to the figure who has seemingly resurrected me.
"In a way. Yes, you died." It spoke back to me.
Its voice was not what I was expecting, though what do you expect death to sound like? Morgan Freeman seemed the obvious choice. But this was not Morgan Freeman.
It was a man though, the deep husky baritone made that clear.
"Am I a ghost?" It was the only thing that made sense.
Death chuckled, the fact he found my obvious lack of knowledge on the subject amusing somewhat riling me.
"No, you are still human. Ghosts do not exist in this realm."
I could only nod, as though what he was saying made absolute perfect sense. It didn't though.
