Short Story: Spaceman

It was a pretty standard cardiovascular incident -which I am in no way referring to at any point as a “heart attack”- that felled me, halfway through my jog, beside the Sam Eig Highway.

I hit the path like a sack of potatoes, potatoes that were already unconscious. My last thoughts were: why was my chest hurting so much? and where are my cigarettes?

Now, imagine this. I came back to consciousness standing over my own sweaty, overweight corpse. I was looking down at myself. Next to me stood eight feet of gauzy wraith clutching a scythe and an egg-timer. He turned his cowled head towards me and I saw two tiny points of impossible blue, burning inside a dirty-grey skull.

‘You’re kidding,’ I said, to The Reaper. ‘You really look like that? That’s such a stereotype!’

‘It Is Too Late For Surprises Now, Johnny.’ The Reaper was gazing at his giant egg-timer, and he tapped at the higher glass bowl with a fingertip of impossibly white bone. The note that this tap created was quite beautiful. ‘Although…’ he continued, uncertainly. He tapped at the egg-timer again, increasingly firmly. ‘There’s Still A Bit Left To Go…’