A Story Born from Creative Chaos
You ever had one of those moments when your creative closet seemed more like a den of chaos? Where you try and try to write something interesting and meaningful and it all goes south? Yeah, I'm with you—been there, done that. On one particular night, and I should have said in the wee hours of the morning, I was sitting and staring at my story. I swear the cursor seemed like a great maw, ready to swallow me up. I put my story down, loaded my AI friend and asked for advice on getting over creative block. Gemini just started shooting me idea after idea and I became so overwhelmed I just said, "Stop! Let's try something different."
This story was the result. I laughed so hard that night I think I ripped a stitch. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as "we" enjoyed creating it.
Chapter 1: A Day Off, a Dream, and Disaster
The quiet hum of the computer, a familiar sound, suddenly felt like a different kind of silence. A cold, bitter, dreadful feeling filled the room with twirling furls of thick, acrid fog. The power had gone off. The only light was the eerie glow of a black candle, shaped like a severed hand, its wax dripping and oozing down like liquid coal to form a dark pool by the fireplace.
A long, drawn-out scream tore through the air, followed by the spine-chilling screech of long, sharp nails dragging down the withered pane. It sounded like a cannonball’s brakes—raw, metallic, and utterly terrifying. A looming shadow, darker than the inky blackness of the room, crept toward the open door, its fiery red eyes glowing like crimson meteors.
"Who lives here?" a deep, guttural voice asked, calling from the shadows. "It will do you no good to hide. Your time has come. I will find you."
I am so sick of this job. Day in. Day out. Always the same. Watch the clock. Wait for a number, and when you get there, what do you find? Someone has decided that my job doesn't matter anymore. I was once revered, worshiped even. Now, if someone mentions my name—nothing. Nada. No screams. No pleas of "I'll do better; I'll make it right." No respect for their elders, and geez, along comes this doctor called Donna Rigden who makes everybody live forever, and I'm out of a job.
He stroked his long, bony fingers over his chin. "What’s a millennia-old entity of finality to do?”
A thought, surprisingly domestic, struck him. "I’ll buy a cat and learn to needlepoint."
Of course, the cat was black. Its name: Spot. There was never any doubt. Death, with painstaking patience, tried to teach Spot the delicate art of needlepoint, only for the mischievous feline to repeatedly sew its tail to the canvas. In a fit of feline indignation, Spot bolted, disappearing into the ethereal ether. Poor Death spent two infuriating weeks trying to catch his own cat, to no avail.
Disheartened by his failed foray into domestic crafts, Death decided on a more public-facing role. "I’ll deliver the local church news."
His new job was as monotonous as the last, only far less fulfilling. He managed to secure one customer, an elderly lady across the street, who subscribed to the weekly bulletin. One morning, as he approached her door, a sudden gust of wind (or perhaps an unintentional ripple in the fabric of existence caused by his mere presence) startled the old woman. She gasped, her false teeth dislodged, and with a terrified choke, she swallowed them.
Out of common courtesy, or for legal reasons so he could protect his honor, Death waited for the coroner to show up. Thinking, "This is it, finally a real client." However, as they put the old woman's body on a gurney and proceeded to load her in the back, they dropped her. Her false teeth dislodged, and she came up screaming—spitting the brown-stained gnashers onto the pavement.
The Almighty’s voice boomed down from on high, shaking the very foundations of the cosmos. "That’s it, Death! I want my money back! You’re a disaster!"
Poor Death, reprimanded by a Boss he no longer technically served, felt a familiar shame. Then, just as he braced for the celestial lecture, a mighty kick from St. Peter’s angelic boot sent him hurtling downwards, through layers of reality, straight into the fiery maw of Hell. Now there's a story.
I hear Lucifer is still playing his baby grand and singing Creep at the top of his lungs.
It was rather scary, for Death, that is. The Hounds of Hell, with their burning eyes and insatiable glee, took him for a ride, grabbing his classic glitz—his scythe—and tossing it into the infernal distance. His long, dark robes were ripped to shreds, tearing his BVDs right off. And to think, as one might guess, he hadn’t had a clean pair with him.
Humiliated and exposed, Death desperately tried to use his scythe (now just a broken hilt) to hide his rather vulnerable bits, which he’d rather not do without.
Just then, the air crackled, and Masa Keen appeared, swinging her num-chuks, literally from the very bowels of Hell. Paying no attention whatsoever to the rather uncompromising position Death had gotten himself into, she swung a little too hard to the left.
A searing agony shot through him. Death, forgetting all dignity, grabbed his nethers and started rolling around, convulsing in agony on the fiery ground. His eyes, swimming with pain, spotted a bucket nearby, filled with what appeared to be cool, clear water. He dove for it, desperate for relief, realizing, at the last second, it wasn't water. It was vinegar.
He shot up like a bullet, the acidic sting burning his most sensitive areas, accidentally knocking over the Broom of the Wicked Witch of the East, which then careened spectacularly, smack into Amenadiel’s pristine angel food cake.
Amenadiel – noble, stoic Amenadiel – stood over his ruined confection, not a happy camper.
Poor Death, still clutching himself, tried to explain it wasn’t his fault, that it was all a huge misunderstanding. But just as he started to string together a coherent (if desperate) defense, the very air around him shifted. A gentle tap on his shoulder.
He was rudely awakened by his wife, appearing beside him, bringing his morning coffee. "What would you like for breakfast, dear?" she asked with a smile, opening the curtains and letting in the bright sunshine, washing away the lingering stench of brimstone and Lucifer’s stinky socks.
Now it's Your Turn!
We've shared our creative chaos with you. What do you think would happen if Death went on a real vacation? What do you think would be on his to-do list? Share your thoughts with us in the comments!
