A hooded cowl covers most of my body, although it is what I wear more than what I am the has created the legend. I carry a simple farming tool – my scythe – sharpened on silk, and made from a metal so thin that it is invisible. With it I can cut through the very air that we – you – breath,and even light falls broken on either side.
In my other hand, I carry life itself.
Who would have thought that time rushes so quickly? A big mass at the top of the hourglass, falling oh! so softly into the deadly base, every grain a second, a stream off time itself.
The eggtimer for your life. No turning back. Twist it this way or that, you can’t stop the flow. You can’t even pause it. Time moves too quickly to be caught.
And when the final grain of sand has fallen, fallen through time itself, what happens next?
Well I come, for a start.
A cloak made from the dying screams of a million nameless people. A hood sewn from every single last animal – last of their kind, that is. A scythe made from a million final words: the witty remarks, the sad truths, the final instructions. I ride a horse made from pure death.
I haven’t finished, I realise that, but I’ve lost the original manuscript, and I hate re-writing my own work. It doesn’t work to badly, I don’t think. More, better stuff in a couple of days.
