Chapter One
Because I could not stop for Death—
He kindly stopped for me—
The Carriage held but just Ourselves—
And Immortality.
--Emily Dickinson, Because I could not stop for Death
Within the immeasurable blue recess of infinity lies the home of Death, more commonly known as the dark country. There is an apple orchard with black apples, a garden of black flowers, monochrome bees with black honey, and a black golf course that warps the fabric of reality.
You can tell that there is an underlying theme here. Except for the corn.
It billows in golden ripples, in a field where there is no wind. In this monotonous landscape, it is the only true beauty, crafted with the knowledge of experience. Yet it stands alone against the stark splendor of Death's Domain. Though it looks real, it is not alive.
Death stands amidst the golden stalks, scythe at the ready, but not to harvest. Not here. He seems lost in his thoughts; his supernova pupils are dim and low. He is holding an hourglass.
For a moment, caught in the skeletal hand, a name flashes from in between bony fingers that are partially covering it up. The name hasn't changed since its creation, but Death is transfixed by it. Sometimes there are things that are extraordinary to the extraordinary. Death's eye sockets flare an intense, burning blue.
PERHAPS IT IS TIME FOR A CHANGE, he says to himself.
The silver sand in the hourglass freezes in place, stopped in mid-flow. It's owner is about to be in for one hell of a surprise.
Writer's block is a terrible thing, usually cured by one of three things: alcohol, for that little step away from reality, Klatchian coffee, for a little too much reality, and sex, because good sex has inspired some of the best novels of all time.
Grace Tippet was at the Lazy Lady, a small pub of stoic drinkers, attempting to cure her writer's block by method number one. Now, there are also two types of writer, the quiet inspirational type, and the quirky insane ones. Grace was a peculiar mixture of both. She was carefully nursing a small mug of beer, and wa trying to write her ideas by arranging the peanuts at the counter.
A voice like the echo of a boulder thrown into a canyon said, BARKEEP, A MUG OF YOUR FINEST. AND ONE FOR THE LADY.
Grace finished her own glass of mystery brew and took the glass and took the one proffered by the stranger. "Thank you." She was quiet until the tall man asked YOUR NAME IS GRACE? She replied, "Yes, how did you know?"
He replied I HAVE READ YOUR BOOK. IT WAS CALLED DEATH, DUTY, AND DESIRE; A DISSERTATION. Grace tried to recall what she had wrote, then frowned.
"'S a good title. Reeeal good. I wish it was mine. But I haven't wrote no book yet. Only half of one. 'S not done."
Death could not frown, but if he could, he would have done so. YOU HAVEN'T? DAMN. I'M EARLY. I REALLY LIKED SOME OF THE CHAPTERS ABOUT ME. PARTICULARLY WHERE YOU TOLD ABOUT THE STRUGGLES ANTHROPOMORPHIC PERSONIFICATIONS FACE WHEN INTERACTING WITH HUMANITY.
Grace muzzily took a swig of beer. "I wrote that?" she asked finally.
YES.
"I don't 'member doin' that…" she mumbled into her drink.
OF COURSE NOT. IT HAPPENS FIVE MONTHS FROM NOW. THE BOOK IS A BESTSELLER.
Grace's alcohol muddled mind was attempting to order her mouth to say that this was impossible, but another swig of alcohol silenced that. Eventually a thought emerged from her mouth, as she asked, "Have we met before?"
IN A WAY. I'VE SEEN EVERYONE'S NAME AROUND HERE AT LEAST ONCE. This seemed to satisfy Grace, who said, "So, wha's your name?"
Caught off guard, and not wanting to scare her, Death stammered UH….IT'S B-BILL. BILL DOOR
"D-do you live 'round here, Mr. Door?"
ER….NO.
"You seem a bit odd, y'know. A little knobby, almost." Death struggled for a response to explain himself in a way she would understand without actually lying to her.
I'M FOREIGN. Grace nodded sagely with newfound wisdom found at the bottom of every drunk's glass everywhere. "Ohhhhh…you're new? You need to be shown 'round and get the ropes an' stuff, so you come'n talked to the famous writer to get the hang o' things." Death decided to go with this. YES. THAT IS EXACTLY CORRECT.
"Since I ain't wrote no book yet, you better be able to pay for th' tour." Death gingerly set down two ancient gold coins, stamped with some dead monarch. WILL THIS BE ENOUGH? Grace's eyes widened at the sight of gold, then she frowned.
Grace was not the most lovely woman on the Disc. Far from it. Most writer's aren't. She had short, feathery blond hair an watery brown eyes, and while she wasn't fat, she wasn't particularly curvaceous. But she had an intelligent face, soft scrubbed skin, and she was in shape. Sometimes men had shown an undue….unhealthy interest.
:Er….you're not wantin' like…estra stuff are you. 'Cause I don't do that."
THE PAYMENT IS UNACCEPTABLE?
"I just mean all you are expectin' is a tour, right? And maybe lunch."
YES, said Death solemnly. THAT IS ALL.
"Oh, well, that's all right then. Tomorrow, then. We'll meet here. What time is good for you?"
MY WORK LETS ME GET AROUND EARLY. Grace thought carefully, an impressive feat for a drunk. "So…..nine o'clock, right? And lunch. But you're payin' for it."
OKAY.
