I enjoy writing, I always have, so im thinking i might post some of my writing on my blog... This is something i wrote when i was much younger, a sketchy prologue maybe...
George Harding stared at the black figure before him. So this was death, he thought. He had always imagined it to be more terrifying. Instead, he couldn’t decide whether to be frightened or just be deeply in awe.
The spectre was as silent as a grave, he stood tall and decidedly grim. He wore a black cloak made from a sort of dark essence, and his aroma was a malevolent yet magical.
Even though George was about to die, he still felt incredibly awkward, staring up at this famously dark being. Thoughts flashed through his mind such as, how is my wife going to cope? What will happen to the business now? and Oh my god! Who will feed my cat? But these thoughts seemed of little importance now that he was about to leave them all behind. It was just as well too, because George had many regrets in his life, and the last thing he wanted to do was bring up all those memolries again. In fact, he suddenly felt desperate to get this over with.
George had just opened his mouth to hurry the dark spectre on, when suddenly, the reaper spoke.
“Quaint little street you have here,” he said.
George shrugged, quite taken back, “Yes, it’s rather pretty, we have a terrific neighbourhood watch programme. and...”
“Wow terrific,” the reaper butted in, his tone somewhat unimpressed. “Listen, I’ve got a confession to make,” he continued, straightening his long, black cloak.
George frowned, “Hmm, yes I suppose you want my soul don’t you?”
To George’s surprise, the deathly spectre shook his head.
“No,” he said, sounding a little embarrased, “i’m actually lost and you’re the person who can point me in the right direction.”
George heaved a sigh of relief and then in an instant he became highly suspicious, “You’re not messing with my head are you?” he asked unsurely.
The Reaper laughed, “No George i’m not. Trust me, if I was coming for your soul i’d have the demons with me. Afterall, you haven’t been the most benevolent guy around have you?”
George shuddered, feeling guilty, perhaps death would be a better fate than living with so many regrets.
The spectre seemed to notice George’s sudden distress, “Don’t worry,” he said, trying to be comforting, “with a diet such as yours I doubt you’ll have long left.”
“Gee, thanks for that,” George scowled.
“You have a son right?” The reaper asked, pulling George closer towards the tall hedges, so nobody could see them.
George stared at the spectre, suddenly feeling a little sick, “No,” he said, looking away.
The reaper sighed, “Ah come on,” he groaned, “I know you do, and I know you gave him away...” he paused a moment while George hung his head in shame, then he continued, “but I can’t find him, I don’t have his name.”
George’s usually handsome yet aging face had turned a sour milk colour, shivers rushed down his spine like an electric current. He took a few steps back but the Reaper held out his scithe threatingly.
The reaper looked impatient now, “George,” he said seriously, “what is your son’s name?”
