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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1408101
by Tyler
Rated: E · Prose · Death · #1408101
An auction with Death.
Ever Present Past

Silently and slowly, Death raised its hand.
“Sold! – to the man in the cloak.”

The fellow to Death’s right turned towards It and furrowed his salt and peppered brow. Death sat unmoved.

“Our next item is the gleam of a youthful eye,” said the auctioneer as he walked across the stage and pulled a corked flask from his sack.

The grizzled fellow leaned forward, lost for a moment.

“Extracted, distilled, concentrated, and bottled. Still fresh, still pure – untainted by life’s fatigue. We’ll start the bidding at five-hundred doubloon pieces; do I hear five hundred?”

The man broke from reverie and two tired fingers shot upward. His eyes, suddenly fierce, narrowed at Death. Death sat unmoved.

“Five hundred. Do I hear seven-fifty?”

Death raised its hand.

“We have seven-fifty. Do I hear one-thousand? On-n-ne thousand? Going once, going twice, sold! – to the chap in black.”

The man grunted and looked at Death again.

“Next up we have a giddy squeal of fascination, snatched from its owner before he’d noticed or cared.”

The man gripped the wood of his chair and looked toward the dirt.

“Mint condition: devoid of doldrums and barren of boredom. We’ll start the bidding at three hundred, that’s three hundred doubloons. Do I hear three hundred?”

The man had stopped listening. He stared at something that wasn’t there and a drop of memory left his eye. He stood up, wiped his face dry, and began to hobble away.

“Sold! – to the gent in the hood.”

The man stopped. He curled his hand. Then he walked back and threw off Death’s hood and saw the face of a child; doubloons covered Its eyes.

© Copyright 2008 Tyler (ty274 at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1408101