“Death, I don’t like you. You’re like the ride home from Disneyland—totally not fun.”

(Tad late to the party, but here’s my blogfest entry anyway. Oh, and I wish I could do morbid, but for some weird reason this is as morbid as I could get, which is kind of sad because there’s rainbows and stuff like that in here. Weird for a doomsday kind of blogfest, don’t ya think? And it sorta blows too. Sorry. )

Anyway, here goes:


“Angela Scott?”

Something doesn’t seem quite right here. A little too bright. Slightly fuzzy, and what the heck is with the harp music in the distance? Is someone baking sugar cookies?

I blink my eyes. Something’s definitely amiss here. Rainbows. Lolipops. Gumdrops. My childhood dog named Tuffy who died when I was ten. TUFFY! Sweet mother of--

I stumble backwards.

“Whoa there!” A hand on my wrist yanks me forward once more. “Watch your step. You almost fell off.”

Fell off?

Friggin’ heck!  Ohmygoshohmygoshohmygoshohmygosh . . . a cloud. I’m standing on a friggin’ cloud. Vapor. Vapor is beneath my feet. Total nothingness. I’m standing on nothingness. Someone slap--

“Holy cow!” I hold my cheek. “Why did you do that for?”

“You said someone slap me.”

“No I did not. I didn’t say a thing.”

Okay. This is weird. Who slipped me a little somthin’-somthin’?

“You need to be careful. If you fall off, you go to H-E-double hockey sticks.”

“H-E-double hockey sticks?  You mean Hell?”

“Shhhh . . . don’t say it. You can go there just for saying it?”

“Seriously? Jeez, what kind of a stiff joint is this place?”

“Well”—my companion beams with giddiness—“that over there, on that big cloud, beyond the pearly gates is Heaven. It’s beautiful. But you’ll just have to trust me on that one”—he chuckles—“Down there is Earth and way, way, way down there is Fire and Brimstone. We don’t like to talk about that.”

“So what is this?” I wave my arms to indicate the tiny cloud I’m standing on. No bigger than an eight-by-ten area.

“This”—he shakes his head—“This is your only option.”

“My only what?”

“Option.  But you can call it home if you like. Kinda nice, huh?”

“Kinda nice my sorry white—”

“Goodness gracious, will you stop with the vulgarities. You’re going to get me into trouble. See this is the kind of thing that keeps you from over there”—he points toward Heaven where my dog stands at the edge wagging his tail and licking the end of the rainbow—“This is why you have to stay here, where it’s safe for everybody.”

“Safe for everybody? What did I do?”

He tsk-tsk’s me. An awfully annoying sound.  “Oh, you’re never going to change, are you?”

I fold my arms across my chest. “Who the heck are you anyway?”

He extends his hand in my general direction. “I’m Death.”

I throw back my head and laugh. “You! You’re awful short to be death don’t you think? And where’s your black robe and scythe?”

He takes back his hand  and narrows his eyes. “Death comes in all sizes, shapes, and forms, just so you know. And black, well, it’s not my color. I prefer purple.”

“You know, the way you’re dressed and from all the delicious smells wafting over from Heaven, I would have thought I was in Willy Wonka’s land.”

He paces the tiny cloud we share. “Why, oh why, did I have to draw the short end of the stick? My mother said, ‘Be an angel, Herrald. Take voice lessons, Herrald.’ But did I listen? NO!”

“Hey! I’m not that bad,” I say.

“Really? Then why aren’t you over there talking to St. Peter?”

Boy, I want to chest bump that little guy off my cloud. “Well, I’m not experiencing Fire and Brimstone so that has to mean something.”

“That only means you weren’t quite good enough for either place.”

“You know what, Death?” I say, “I don’t like you. You’re like the ride home from Disneyland—totally not fun.”

---