Once upon a time bodies lay thick on the ground. Most were dead but there were a few who were soon to be made so. Postules filled with blood and pus, then burst. The mixture burned the skin of the living and dead alike.
I am Death. I have sinned. This is my confession.
"Death, you say?" I tugged on my collar and swallowed. "Well, let's see . . . This is most unusual, and I'm a bit new at this, but . . . you're going to need to say twelve million Hail Marys and thirty-five thousand Our Fathers. Yes, I think that should be about right."
Opening: D Jason Cooper.....Continuation: Eric
Journal, if I am going to keep you we need to get one thing straight. I am keeping you because I want to, because I choose to and because I wish to share my experience and pessimism with any travellers fortunate enough to find you (if there are any nuggets of wisdom in my words, I apologise for that now). Most importantly, journal, this means I am not keeping you because Miss Perfect Susanne asked me to. I like to think that more than a flimsy shopper’s notepad and bank pen lies between me and insanity, thank you very much.
I would also like to point out that I’m aware you are an inanimate object, even if I refer to you as ‘you’ – it’s just easier that way. Given that I’m one of probably only a handful of sane people left on this planet, I thought you’d understand.
Not that most people nowadays are insane; they’re just dead.
Dresser, don't think I can't hear you sneaking up behind me as I write this. That's an expensive hardwood floor you're tearing up. Just keep your distance, and if I need a pair of clean underpants, I know where to find you.
Television, you turned yourself on and now you can turn yourself right back off. Or at the very least, switch away from Jersey Shore re-runs. If there's any silver lining to the bizarre force that has breathed hellish life into Earth's inanimate objects, it's that reality TV "stars" were among the first casualties.
Toilet ... we need to talk.
Opening: Naomi Reynolds.....Continuation: jrmosher
The girl screamed in delirium as she lay on the white bed twisting the stiff, starched sheets under her. A stain of sweat and blood spread below her raised and shaking legs. A musky smell hung in the air as the girl struggled. Outside the rain streamed down in a torrential rush beating in a tinny, rhythm on the windows of the back room of the one-floor medical office.
Doctor Britton’s right hand slid inside the girl up to his wrist as he pushed down on her bloated stomach. She screamed again as he touched her monstrous belly. Then her lungs and strength gave up and she trailed off into ragged whimpers.
“The head is turned. Get me the forceps!” He yelled to the nurse with cropped, gray hair. She swiftly identified the instrument from the table near her and placed it in Doctor Britton’s outstretched left hand. She trembled next to him. In her 40 years as a nurse she had never seen a pregnant woman scream so hideously through the birth process. Something was wrong, terribly wrong.
She wished there were other attendants here for this birth besides herself and the doctor – and the unseen man outside who waited to finish this night for them and take this baby. She glanced at the back door where he waited. She wondered what kind of man would wait in the rain for such a job.
[Slow dissolve. Fade in on man in brown uniform waiting patiently.]
Voice-over: UPS: For your most difficult deliveries. Ask about our guaranteed pick-up service.
[Fade to black.]
Opening: Donna Galanti.....Continuation: Anon (Probably ril)