11 Oct 2019

We Are 138 #45 - Last Orders

His claim seemed preposterous, yet I humoured him. We drank and chatted into the night, the recounted tales of his trade as dark as the rich stout which swilled in our bellies. Perhaps in my beer-addled thoughts, I was beginning to half-believe his assertion.

“You don’t look like the Grim Reaper,” I observed. “I expected somebody more… skeletal.”

A wry smile from my drinking companion, a flash of gleaming white teeth set in a kindly face etched with a Hampton Court maze of wrinkles.

“Like I said, I’m on a break. And you humans see what you want to see,” he smiled, picking up his flat cap and cane. “Next week, then.”

“You told me you only holidayed every few centuries.”

“That I did,” Death said as he left, the doors swinging closed behind him.

“That I did.”


David Court’s wife Tara once asked him to write a story about how great she was. David replied that he would, because he specialised in short fiction. Despite that, they are still married.

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