They called him The Machine. He processed corpses so fast and emotionlessly that he was the go to man when someone wanted something covered up. Rowan dragged her weary limbs up the steps to where he worked. She hoped her skillset would convince him to take her on as an apprentice. Hunting the man who killed her husband and children relied heavily on weather or not The Machine would take her on as an apprentice, he had turned down every other applicant. She knocked on the door gently, the man who opened the door was not what someone would ever think to call a Machine, he was tall and lanky, his face was gaunt the skin pulled tight over the bones, he was no more than a living skeleton. Rowan feared that she had knocked on the wrong door, until he spoke, his voice low, wispy, and dry,
"Ray Owen, come in." He had read the email she sent to him. It was time to find the bastard called Reaper.
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Word Vomit
Short StoryPlotless incoherent rambles because the best way to beat writer's block is to write.
