The Light Of David

David had never been out on Halloween before, but now he followed a ball of light so brilliant it pierced his iris and struck the back of his skull like a bolt of lightning while his tiny feet moved silently along the steaming roads. Not wanting to be left behind he broke into a run and chased the light like a happy fool until it stopped in front of a house and, before he could just to catch it, disappeared. In its place was a woman, of equal brilliance and beauty who crouched before David and whispered to him in a voice that hung in the air like a drop of water, "I'm sorry David... I truly am."
Suddenly fearful, David tried to take a step back or scream, but found he could do neither and there was barely time to widen his eyes before the woman dived into him, leaving his skin glossy and rippling. David felt pain then purpose and, although he could not understand why, he walked towards the house, picking up a piece of scrap metal, sharp and pointed, and knocked his tiny fist on the door.
"Trick or Treat..." he called, his voice echoing strangely off the empty street as people moved inside the house, surprised no doubt at a visitor so late, but David just gripped the shard, smiled, and waited.

The Call

When Death calls on you, black cloak rustling in silent breezes, you stand at a fork in the road.
You can go. You will hold your hand out like a child following parents long ago. Death will not take it. His fingers will instead remain hidden in the volumes of his shroud. But as he walks, you will follow regardless, pulled by the tides of a thousand oceans.

Death will take you to a field that stretches to the end of time. There will be a man here, perched on a stone. He will tell you the meaning of life. You will laugh at the irony, at its simple genius, and at all the unanswered questions yelled at the sky. Death will lead you from the field and you will travel across the world, but you will remember nothing, because you are dead.

When Death calls on you, you can ignore the door. Fight the creeping chills, think of sunshine. When Death holds his hand out for you, you can brush it away, feeling icicles on your fingertips. When Death grabs at your wrist, you can run. Show him how your heart beats. Show him how alive you really are.Run like you have never run, but it doesn't matter in the end. Death will always find you in the dark. When Death's cold hand grips your soul:
Scream, "You can't take me!"
Yell, "I have so much to do!"
Cry, "Just give me one more day."

When you feel the cold pulse drifting through your bones, do not lose hope. Show Death your first broken heart. Tell him what it took to fix it. Show Death a box of all your broken promises. Tell him why it is so small. Show Death a house of hopes and dreams. Tell him why it has no walls, and stretches to eternity. Show Death a test tube of tears, a container of curses, and a jar of joy.

Lay these before him and Death will hesitate. He will reach into your mind and pull out mounds of memories. They will pile up around you, collapsing, crushing you under their weight. A whisper will tell you, "This is your life."
You must not struggle. Let everything in. Then you will wake, your heart will beat and your breath will fill the room.

In a week you will receive a call. On the other end of the line, someone is breathing. You must listen as the breathing slows, then stops. A voice will whisper, "That is your last moment."

Hamish and the Butterfly

Hamish has a butterfly in a jar. The jar seems impossibly big in his small boy hands, with tiny knuckle wrinkles, and bitten fingernails soaked in dirt. Hamish keeps the jar and the butterfly by his bed, and when he can’t sleep for his parent’s yelling, he looks at its wings fluttering in the moonlight. The butterfly’s wings are blue, red and transparent, so that sometimes, when Hamish squints, he can see all the way through both wings, and into eternity. When Hamish has the butterfly next to his bed, he dreams of meadows in bloom and the far-blown fantasies of a five year old. When the butterfly’s wings cease to flutter, Hamish takes its tiny body to the hill in the meadow where he caught it, and watches the wind take it to a freedom he may never know.

Death's Piano

Before her eyes held the wrinkles of time, and her hair faded raven black to silver, Elizabeth played the piano. Her stiff hands still hold the music, notes like leaves, chords like sweet fruits that grow through ears and into souls. As time moves, and Death glides up her garden path, Elizabeth's hands find familiar keys, feeling the warmth rise to her fingertips, pressing sounds through the silence. At the door, Death hesitates, the sound holds him hostage, forcing him to peek in through the window, hands outstretched, pulling life to completion.

With a rush, a final cadence, she is gone.

In between reality, where Death makes his home, he sits content in a favourite armchair, ear cocked as Elizabeth presses sounds through eternal silence.