Tick tock.
The clock on the wall made the sound as the seconds hand swung clockwise in uniform strokes. It was a few minutes to twelve midnight. The full moon shone brightly, shedding light through the open window and casting scary shadows all over the room where two little boys sat engaging their childish mind in the twisted fantasy of the appearance of death.
Toba and I had always argued about what death would look like when he came. The debate had started when death had come for our grandfather when we were seven. We had seen our mother cry for weeks, her eyes, regular bloodshot red.
Tonight was one of the many nights of our childish arguments. I told Toba death would be a very fat man because he always came for people’s souls. He must have eaten so many souls that he must now be so fat and he couldn’t look like he skeletal figures in story books. It was not possible grandpa saw a skeletal figure before he shut his eyes forever. Death had to be enticing, robust and comfortable looking to be followed. Death had to be a fat man, maybe even with a potbelly…
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What if death as a fast metabolism. Hehe nice entry!