Post by Jordy on Mar 22, 2009 20:55:21 GMT -5
They say that when you die, a figure of death in a black robe, wielding a scythe, will walk toward you, out of the light. He will take you by the arm. If you fight him, he will become forceful, and drag you, or leave you to wander the world, a ghost and lost soul until you are put to rest. If you walk with him, his hood will fall, his deathly hands grow skin and warm, and his black garb will shimmer in white, and he will guide you to Heaven, where you will finally rest. The Grim Reaper, or Death, cannot be everywhere at once, as one might imagine. He recruits help, and nominates people within a community who are deemed understanding, and worthy of holding the title of "Death" in the community. There are many deaths, all mixed into one. Death takes on many persona's, but to everyone else, Death is the one and only.
In each community, one person is chosen to act as Death. They receive their robes, scythe, and supernatural abilities. If they fail, are discovered to be Death within the world, or do not carry out their duties, they are stripped of rank, title, gear, and powers, and everyone's mind is wiped of all memories of his very existence. All they've done shall disappear, their influence shall have never happened, and they will become an abomination, doomed to walk the Earth forever. You thought Sasquatch was supernatural? No, he was a failed Reaper. Moth-man? He was caught in Spain's Royal Court.
In the small community of Well Springs, Georgia, lived one of the Servants of Death. He lived like his brethren, until he died and his title passed to another of his town. He read the newspaper like everyone else, he owned a cat, he watched his T.V. He led a peaceful life, until he considered his job. He then went on a journey, learning the true weight of his job, appreciating what he had to do and the true honor he was given by accepting. Some who even knew of it called it the Reaper's Journey, or Death's Dark Road, or sometimes Death's Salvation.
But this is not any of those. This is the story of Jim Ambol.
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"Good morning Georgia, I'm Ray Hendz, watching this beautiful sunrise with all of you early-goers. Today's Tuesday, August 2nd, and I'm your morning friend. I've got me a cup of joe and some nice tunes for you all to listen to, and-" the alarm radio stopped as two fingers flicked a switch, turning the alarm off. It read "6:00", and the early, reddish sun shone through the blinds on the window. Jim sat up, yawning, stretching his arms far behind him. Today was his forty-second birthday. He wouldn't be celebrating, however. His legs stretched far in front of him as he flipped the covers off. He turned, setting his feet on the rug in front of his bed. The room was white and ordinary, a desk opposite of him, and a door to the right.
He stood up, took one, final stretch, and turned, taking the covers and setting them neatly in front of his pillow. He slipped his feet into his slippers, dark blue, and started toward the door, picking the blue robe off the hook next to the door up and throwing it around himself. He fastened the strings around himself, securing the robe on himself. He stepped out the door, turning left and into the kitchen. At the counter, he took his coffee pot and slid over to his sink, filling it with water. He placed the pot into the coffee maker, and opened a pantry door above him, taking a large can of coffee crystals. He opened the lid, the scent of cinnamon wafting into his nose.
He opened the silverware drawer, and in the space in the back, pulled out a measuring spoon. He shut the drawer and opened the top of his coffee maker, scooping a few scoops of crystals in the filter. He shut it hard, flipping a switch on the side that turned orange on the side that was flipped down. He walked over to his front door and looked through the glass. He watched another glorious sunrise, a couple birds singing, and looked down. Blearily, he saw the outline of a newspaper on his welcome mat. He opened the door and stepped outside, looking at the road in front of him. Across the street and to the right was another house. He looked down, looking at the other few houses between the expanses of woodland and brush. He bent down, grabbing the newspaper, and slipped back indoors, shutting the door.
Jim waltzed over to his kitchen table and reached for the remote to the small T.V. directly across from his chair. He pressed the power button, sat down, and opened his newspaper. He ignored the television altogether for several moments, until a beeping interrupted his concentration on the paper. He turned, identifying the disturbance coming from his pot of now black coffee. He scooted his chair out, laying the paper on the ash-wood table, and slowly made his way to the pot. He reached up into another pantry door, and picked out a coffee mug. He put it on the counter, pulling the coffee pot out of the coffee maker, and poured a cup of coffee for himself. He put the pot back where it belonged and took the mug back to the table, sitting. Jim took a long sip and looked up at the television. The newsman was talking, but he ignored it. In the top right corner was a blinking, wooden cross.
Jim sighed, leaving the his coffee on the table and rising. He walked out of his kitchen and into the hallway, opening a door on his right. He walked down the stairs and weaved through a labyrinth of junk and boxes until he came to a closet. He opened it and pulled on the chain dangling from the ceiling in front of him, the light-bulb stalling a few times before finally illuminating the small space. He looked down, and searched the floor, his eyes picking apart the junk and scattered pieces of his memories on the ground. He finally found a very small piece of string. He bent low, and pulled it, a square pulling up. It revealed a safe. Jim began twisting the knob, listening for the clicks. Six times it clicked, and it held fast. He pulled, and the safe-door opened. There was a six foot hole in his floor, a robe hanging from his hook, and a scythe leaning against the wall.
He grabbed them. He threw his bathrobe off, putting the black ones on instead, pulling the hood up. Grabbing his scythe, he pulled the chain again and began navigating back to his main floor. Jim walked upstairs and slammed the door behind him, walking out the front door and to his mailbox. With nobody looking, he grabbed his mail and darted back inside. He looked through his mail.
"Increase your size by four inches!"
"Home equity loans, no interest!"
"Is your woman unsatisfied?"
"Russian brides await your undying love!"
Picking through his junk mail, he found a few bills and two letters that interested him. One said, "Thank you for helping the Church! Here's a thank you!" he opened the letter, and found a check for $3,000, like he did every month. He placed it on the table, planning to cash it in later that day. He opened the other, which was titled, "Family Emergency!", with a Cross in the corner. He opened it, pulling out a plain letter that read simple text.
"Frank Murry
Age 64
Main Street, alley between 403 and 401.
Time of Death: 9:22, A.M.
Murder."
Jim read the last line again. Did he read this right? The town hadn't had a murder in forever. The only other murder that occurred in his time as a Servant of Death was his very first, when a young man was shot dead in the street. He sighed. It did say Murder.
He placed the letter down, and raised his scythe high. He turned away from the table and sliced down, disappearing from the house.
In each community, one person is chosen to act as Death. They receive their robes, scythe, and supernatural abilities. If they fail, are discovered to be Death within the world, or do not carry out their duties, they are stripped of rank, title, gear, and powers, and everyone's mind is wiped of all memories of his very existence. All they've done shall disappear, their influence shall have never happened, and they will become an abomination, doomed to walk the Earth forever. You thought Sasquatch was supernatural? No, he was a failed Reaper. Moth-man? He was caught in Spain's Royal Court.
In the small community of Well Springs, Georgia, lived one of the Servants of Death. He lived like his brethren, until he died and his title passed to another of his town. He read the newspaper like everyone else, he owned a cat, he watched his T.V. He led a peaceful life, until he considered his job. He then went on a journey, learning the true weight of his job, appreciating what he had to do and the true honor he was given by accepting. Some who even knew of it called it the Reaper's Journey, or Death's Dark Road, or sometimes Death's Salvation.
But this is not any of those. This is the story of Jim Ambol.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Good morning Georgia, I'm Ray Hendz, watching this beautiful sunrise with all of you early-goers. Today's Tuesday, August 2nd, and I'm your morning friend. I've got me a cup of joe and some nice tunes for you all to listen to, and-" the alarm radio stopped as two fingers flicked a switch, turning the alarm off. It read "6:00", and the early, reddish sun shone through the blinds on the window. Jim sat up, yawning, stretching his arms far behind him. Today was his forty-second birthday. He wouldn't be celebrating, however. His legs stretched far in front of him as he flipped the covers off. He turned, setting his feet on the rug in front of his bed. The room was white and ordinary, a desk opposite of him, and a door to the right.
He stood up, took one, final stretch, and turned, taking the covers and setting them neatly in front of his pillow. He slipped his feet into his slippers, dark blue, and started toward the door, picking the blue robe off the hook next to the door up and throwing it around himself. He fastened the strings around himself, securing the robe on himself. He stepped out the door, turning left and into the kitchen. At the counter, he took his coffee pot and slid over to his sink, filling it with water. He placed the pot into the coffee maker, and opened a pantry door above him, taking a large can of coffee crystals. He opened the lid, the scent of cinnamon wafting into his nose.
He opened the silverware drawer, and in the space in the back, pulled out a measuring spoon. He shut the drawer and opened the top of his coffee maker, scooping a few scoops of crystals in the filter. He shut it hard, flipping a switch on the side that turned orange on the side that was flipped down. He walked over to his front door and looked through the glass. He watched another glorious sunrise, a couple birds singing, and looked down. Blearily, he saw the outline of a newspaper on his welcome mat. He opened the door and stepped outside, looking at the road in front of him. Across the street and to the right was another house. He looked down, looking at the other few houses between the expanses of woodland and brush. He bent down, grabbing the newspaper, and slipped back indoors, shutting the door.
Jim waltzed over to his kitchen table and reached for the remote to the small T.V. directly across from his chair. He pressed the power button, sat down, and opened his newspaper. He ignored the television altogether for several moments, until a beeping interrupted his concentration on the paper. He turned, identifying the disturbance coming from his pot of now black coffee. He scooted his chair out, laying the paper on the ash-wood table, and slowly made his way to the pot. He reached up into another pantry door, and picked out a coffee mug. He put it on the counter, pulling the coffee pot out of the coffee maker, and poured a cup of coffee for himself. He put the pot back where it belonged and took the mug back to the table, sitting. Jim took a long sip and looked up at the television. The newsman was talking, but he ignored it. In the top right corner was a blinking, wooden cross.
Jim sighed, leaving the his coffee on the table and rising. He walked out of his kitchen and into the hallway, opening a door on his right. He walked down the stairs and weaved through a labyrinth of junk and boxes until he came to a closet. He opened it and pulled on the chain dangling from the ceiling in front of him, the light-bulb stalling a few times before finally illuminating the small space. He looked down, and searched the floor, his eyes picking apart the junk and scattered pieces of his memories on the ground. He finally found a very small piece of string. He bent low, and pulled it, a square pulling up. It revealed a safe. Jim began twisting the knob, listening for the clicks. Six times it clicked, and it held fast. He pulled, and the safe-door opened. There was a six foot hole in his floor, a robe hanging from his hook, and a scythe leaning against the wall.
He grabbed them. He threw his bathrobe off, putting the black ones on instead, pulling the hood up. Grabbing his scythe, he pulled the chain again and began navigating back to his main floor. Jim walked upstairs and slammed the door behind him, walking out the front door and to his mailbox. With nobody looking, he grabbed his mail and darted back inside. He looked through his mail.
"Increase your size by four inches!"
"Home equity loans, no interest!"
"Is your woman unsatisfied?"
"Russian brides await your undying love!"
Picking through his junk mail, he found a few bills and two letters that interested him. One said, "Thank you for helping the Church! Here's a thank you!" he opened the letter, and found a check for $3,000, like he did every month. He placed it on the table, planning to cash it in later that day. He opened the other, which was titled, "Family Emergency!", with a Cross in the corner. He opened it, pulling out a plain letter that read simple text.
"Frank Murry
Age 64
Main Street, alley between 403 and 401.
Time of Death: 9:22, A.M.
Murder."
Jim read the last line again. Did he read this right? The town hadn't had a murder in forever. The only other murder that occurred in his time as a Servant of Death was his very first, when a young man was shot dead in the street. He sighed. It did say Murder.
He placed the letter down, and raised his scythe high. He turned away from the table and sliced down, disappearing from the house.
