A Conversation With Death

Trifecta had a fun prompt this week:

This week's word is:

DEATH
1a : a permanent cessation of all vital functions : the end of life
  b : an instance of dying <a disease causing many deaths>
2a : the cause or occasion of loss of life <drinking was the death of him>
  b : a cause of ruin <the slander that was death to my character — Wilkie Collins>
3 capitalized : the destroyer of life represented usually as a skeleton with a scythe

Mwahahaha.  Have fun.

Please remember:

• Your response must be between 33 and 333 words.

• You must use the 3rd definition of the given word in your post.

• The word itself needs to be included in your response.

• You may not use a variation of the word; it needs to be exactly as stated above. 

• Only one entry per writer.

The first part of this story started with a response to a Write on Edge prompt that can be found here.

Please enjoy!

Jonathan blinked and found himself standing in a bizarre cave.  The walls seemed to shift and bend in ways he couldn’t quite follow.  The longer he stared at them the worse it got. 

“So.  You’re the next lucky contestant,” a bass voice echoed out of the darkness.

“Who’s there?” Jonathan spun around several times.

“You need to pay back your sins, right?  The Grim Reaper sent you here?” the rock grinding voice came from a different direction.

“How do you know what’s going on?  I’m crazy, I know it.”

“No.  You’re dead.  I should know.”

“What?”

A sigh sounding more like a gentle earthquake filled the M.C. Escher-esque cavern, “I hate repeating myself.  You’re dead.  I know this because I’m Death.  I decide who lives and dies and when.”

“Isn’t that the Grim Reaper’s job?” Jonathan scratched his head.

“No.  Common misconception.  He harvests souls.  I deal in lives.”

Jonathan whimpered.

“He sent you to me to give you one chance to fix your wrongs, right?”

“I guess,” Jonathan’s voice quavered a little on the second word.

“Well, then.  Back you go.  You have thirty-three years to fix your screw-ups.  If you don’t, I have to come get you again.  But, remember.  You’re not really alive again.  And if you try to tell anyone about what’s going on, they won’t believe you.”

“No kidding,” Jonathan mumbled under his breath before answering aloud, “How do I fix my screw-ups?”

“Do I look like your counselor?  I’m not, just in case you missed it.”

The cave filled with black mist.  The walls began to move and twist even more.  As his consciousness faded 

Jonathan heard one last thing from the voice calling itself Death.

“This outcome determines whether you make it into paradise or not.  Remember that as well,” then softer, “I hate it when the Grim Reaper does this to me.  I go through the effort to kill someone and he turns around and undoes it on me the minute my back is turned.”

Nerves

The Stream of Consciousness Prompt from Notebook Sisters this week was "it makes me nervous".  So here's my 5 minutes on that prompt:



I used to think the biggest thing that made me nervous was when the kids at work were quiet.  See I work as a chemical health counselor for adolescents.  So, when they get quiet it just about always means trouble.  That trouble usually equates to calls to parents and/or probation officers.  Sometimes it even means that the police come and take one of these teenagers to the juvenile detention center for a probation violation.

Then I found out I was pregnant.  Please keep in mind, I had no basis for the worries that came next.  I worried that something would happen and I would miscarry.  Then I worried that something would be wrong with my baby.  Then I worried that I would do something to hurt my baby.

When those worries proved baseless, I worried about labor.  The only legitimate worry I had there was that while in labor, my son's heart rate kept dropping.  So I had a C-section.

Now I worry about him - is he okay?  Does this particular sneeze/rash/face/etc mean something more than a sneeze/rash/face/etc.  When I leave him with someone else (yes, even my husband) I worry about whether or not he's okay.  Pretty much all of these fears (especially leaving him with my husband) are baseless as well.

Good thing I rarely ever act on those worries!

5 minutes - stop.

There ends my 5-minutes Streams of Consciousness post. Want to join in? (We'd love to have you!) 

There are just 5 steps...

1. Set your timer and write for 5 minutes.

2. Publish! (No editing. This is rough, unrefined writing.)

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5. Stop by the other blogs and say hay!

Money

Write on Edge had an interesting prompt this week: 

Money. We count it and trade it for the things we need, the things we want, and sometimes even the things we can’t really afford.

This week you have 450 words; the first and last lines will be provided, but the middle is up to you!

Beginning line: “Not everyone can be bought,” she said.
Ending line: He let the money fall onto the table and walked out.

“Not everyone can be bought,” she said.

“Sure they can.  You just have to find the right price.  And I have your price,” he gestured with the money in his hand.

“Bullshit.”

“If I recall correctly, your sister is sick.  The only place that has the treatments she needs is two protectorates over and in the control of a rather greedy magnate.  And you don’t have the money for it.”

She hesitated.  He was right about all of it.  She’d been trying to find a way to get the medicine but hadn’t found one.  She’d also promised their mother before her death that she’d protect her sister, take care of her.

“What is it you want me to do?” she cringed as she saw the triumph light up his eyes.  He really did have her price and they both knew it.

“Just one thing.  Pretty small, actually, and it won’t even be out of your way.  The Eastern Great Lakes Protectorate has something I want.  Retrieve it while you’re there and we’re even.”

“And if I don’t?” she knew she didn’t want to hear his answer but had no real choice.

“Then you and your dear sister belong to me,” he said a Cheshire Cat grin on his face.

“What about your wife?” she struggled to find an alternative to his penalty.

“What about her?” the nonchalance told her he’d done this several times before.

“How many others are there?” her voice was just a whisper.

“I don’t know why that makes a difference.”

“Because it will,” she snapped.

“Fourteen,” he replied without blinking.

“What?  You’ve got fourteen other women in your compound?  You’re holding them as slaves?”

“Now, now.  That’s a bit harsh.  They’re indentured servants.  They entered into their contracts willingly.  They knew the consequences for failure.”

“And I bet they had about as much of a choice as you’re giving me.”

“Yes, they had the choice just like you do now.  You don’t have to take the money.  But consider the consequences if you don’t,” he moved to look out the window at the ice encrusted world that used to be the city of Duluth, “Just how long does she have?  Two months the doctors figured?”

She nodded her head, too busy trying not to cry to answer aloud.

“I don’t know what else you’ll do to get the money, and more importantly, the treatments in that time.  Have you got another plan?”

She shook her head as he dug at her secret.

“Do we have a deal then?”

“Yes,” she couldn’t look at him, feeling dirty and sick at the devil’s deal she just made.

He let the money fall onto the table and walked out.

This is an idea I'm playing around with as I contemplate NaNoWriMo next month.  Let me know what you think.

To NaNo or Not to NaNo

I've been debating a question for a while now.  Whether or not to participate in NaNo this November.  I did it last year and I did Camp NaNo this year.  However, since those events, my son was born.  So the debate is whether or not to try NaNo while taking care of my son - who will be about 2 1/2 months old at the beginning of November.  This debate reminded me of the soliloquy (or is it a monologue?) from Hamlet.  So, using Trifecta's prompt this week and borrowing from Shakespeare, here's my response to the prompt:

To NaNo, or not to NaNo: that is the question.

Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The slings and arrows of uneasy questions,

Or to take arms against a sea of doubts,

And by writing end them?  To write: to NaNo;

No more; and by NaNo to say we create

The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks

That characters are heir to, ‘The End’ is a consummation

Devoutly to be wish’d.  To write, to NaNo;

To NaNo: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;

For in that NaNo what dreams of publication may come

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

For the title of author.

Be sure to stop over at Trifecta and check out the other responses to the prompt.