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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1289373-A-Winter-Encounter
Rated: E · Other · Ghost · #1289373
A short story/poem about a chilly encounter in London.
The stars twinkled merrily in the dark sky.
It was a chilly December evening, the frost hung upon the end of a lamppost.
A man trudged through the snow; his face was determined and grim.
His clothes were of a finer kind, satin lace and trim.
They were as black as coal, the coverings to keep his body warm.
As he walked with meaningful strides, his black cane with a bronze head of a bear tapped upon the sidewalk as he continued up the street lit with the stars and the lanterns of the lamppost.
His nose was crooked, his grin was wicked, his steel grey eyes shone brightly in a pool of deep abyss.

This was a man who had served his purpose in life, one who had no future need. For he was not of this world, he was a spirit of long time past.
The light snow fell through his black top hat, he could not feel the cold snow in his grey-swept hair, it just went through him like fog in the night.
And still, with his determined stride, he came to a wooden door. There was a large brass knocker hanging like a Christmas ornament of yore.
With his cane, he made a knocking sound, though he was unable to touch the wood, as I think I made that plain.
The door opened, the man could see light and merriment upon the face of the portly, red-faced man who answered the door.

"I have done as you wished, I have done so and more. By coming and knocking upon your chamber door," muttered the hook-nosed man.
The jolly man seemed grim as the other held his hand to him.
Within it was a paper slip with a name.
Taking it, he opened it up and exclaimed in mild surprise, "There must be a mistake! This cannot be right!"
The black dressed man smiled eerily and exclaimed, "Oh yes, you are dead too alright!"

With his job of announcing to the living they are dead, this I leave to ponder in your head. If a man is willing and he is just, to the Grim Reaper would your life you entrust?

The End.
© Copyright 2007 Simon Wellis (acer at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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