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WIP5
BOOK #1
OF
REMINISCE
..A peek into Death’s Diary..
H.P BLACKWOOD
The Genesis
The Genesis.
I, Death, was born during the time of The Genesis.
As the universe burst into existence, so did I, coming into
being to maintain the delicate balance that life required. At
first, there was only darkness and chaos, swirls of creation
and destruction intertwining in cosmic dance. As the stars,
planets, and galaxies began to form, I felt my purpose grow
clearer. In the early days, I was more of an observer, as life
was still finding its footing amongst the vast expanse. I
watched, intrigued, as the first primitive forms of life
emerged and began their endless struggle towards survival.
With every success, however, came loss. And with each
loss, my place in this cosmic tale became more and more
defined. As eons passed, life evolved and flourished,
blossoming into countless variations and complexities. My
role likewise matured, mastering the art of neutrality, for I
knew favoritism had no place in the natural order. This
impartiality was crucial, lest my dominion become tainted
by personal emotions and bias. As I walked amongst the
living, I began to comprehend the profundity of my task.
Each life, no matter how brief or fleeting, held its own
unique beauty and story. Through their own experiences,
they were connected to something greater than themselves.
As I fulfilled my duty, I contemplated the
interconnectedness of all things. Eventually, eventually, the
living beings discovered languages and expressions to make
sense of their world. They sought ways to grasp the
unknown, creating vast mythologies and tales to explain my
existence. I was sometimes perceived as the ultimate evil, a
malevolent force seeking to reap their lives solely for my
satisfaction. If only they knew how much I loathe this
never-ending job! Others imagined me as a benevolent
force, gently guiding those who passed into the safety of the
beyond. Despite their fearful conjectures, I endeavored to
remain anonymous, taking solace in the knowledge that I
was much more than a mere character of their creation. I
knew that I held an irreplaceable role in the great tapestry
of the universe, establishing parity between life and death.
Over time, as humans built their societies and civilizations,
I swirled unseen in the background, contemplating my own
existence. I pondered the age-old questions of love,
empathy, and whether it was possible to experience them
in my line of duty. I contemplated the very nature of my
eternal presence, forever living yet never truly a part of life
itself. Through this internal quest for self-awareness, I
eventually discovered that even in death, there lies the
potential for rebirth and renewal. The trees must shed
their leaves for new ones to grow, the phoenix must burn
to ashes before rising once more, and the sun must set for
a new day to dawn. In this realization, I discovered my own
role in the cycle of creation. Now, as an ancient and eternal
being, I stand on the precipice of time, looking back on
what has been and forward to what may come. Yet, within
the vast expanses of eternity, I am but a passing shadow.
Bearing the responsibility of the universe's equilibrium, I
await the new and unknown chapters that are yet to unfold
before me.
I have seen so many books start this way. And when
talking of books, I have seen ALL books ever penned.
And typewrited. And also keyboarded. I know how all of
them were written. Not that I was the one who gave the
authors the brain to write. Nope. I can’t even write a child
rhyme on my own. It is because the souls that facilitated
the writings later ended up with me. This way, I have
become quite knowledgeable over the years. And when
taking of souls? Oh! I have taken quite a lot. And many
more are still coming. It is never-ending, never-stopping.
The party never stops. Just like humans say. But the truth
is that humans never party for long. You should see them
groaning on their way to work on that dreaded day of the
week. I do have a laugh at many. Sometimes, I make them
nearly run into a car. You should see the way they swear.
Ha, ha! It is quite funny. I am always like: “Heyo! It wasn’t
the driver; it is me.” But they never hear me. But in the
end they all do. When I go to them and say “Time up,”, it
is the only sound they hear. Nothing else. I become their
Beethoven, my sound their symphony and they my thrilled
audience.
Lest I forget, I must analyze my diary first of all.
The font I have chosen for my diary is actually a
tribute. Tribute to Algeria. You see, that North African
country is actually one of the places I respect when it
comes to human places. Back in 19-something(I am quite
bad at dates) they invited me to that place quite a lot. Man,
I didn’t have to do no soul-searching. They handed lives
after lives to me. I had my hands full but I managed to take
them all. But the tribute is not because they gave me lives.
It was the quality of lives they gave that made the
difference. Now, you might think I began working during
the Algerian War. You are as wrong as…..well, no
comparison. You are just wrong. Plain wrong.
I began working…when? Aha! That crazy boy who is
a big brother to all humans gave me my first duty. Kanhan
some call him. Others say Cain. He gave me my first duty.
That little piece of…..tranquilo. Spanish for calm. I am not
going to swear at him. Although he irks me, I mustn’t
swear. It is against my orders.
Now, he asks his brother to follow him into a
deserted place. And he…. He called me. That crazy boy.
Anyone ever wondered if I was napping at that time? I had
to come anyways. I took the soul and he dealt with the
body. I didn’t even watch him do it. And it has being over a
million years since………
That is how long I have being working, soul-
collecting.
I am writing this diary as a tribute to Algeria because
the souls I got were nice ones. Souls of rebels, of people
who wanted change, good change. These people were
giving up their lives so I won’t take the lives of others. Even
when the truth that no matter what, the lives of those they
were protecting will be in my hands, they fought on. “At
least, they will grow old,” they said. Tributes to those souls.
So, there is the reason for the Algeria is an inspiration for
my diary.
Guess how my diary looks. Did I hear you say an
old scroll with bones as the cover? Ha,ha! You must have
thought I am an oldie. No way! I follow trends too. I have a
whole collection of paperback books from various
publishers on my shelf(the shelf is not made of bones also!)
My house is filled with so many things you won’t believe if
I tell you. Wait until you come here. Seeing is believing.
Now, I have ten stories to tell you. One chapter, one
story. This stories are real, not fabricated. I have watched
them happen over the years. Some of them are just a few
decades away. Some are millions of years past. These ten
stories have always had me feeling something that nearly
feels like human emotions. But the feelings never develop
fully. I wasn’t made to feel emotions. I am just a pipe to
conduct human souls, not a vessel to hold them.
Now my story begins. In the Next Chapter.
Spoiler: Algeria didn’t make my top ten list. Nor
did Hitler.
Pardon me for dilly-dallying. I MUST mention
Hitler. And since the man with the funny moustache didn’t
make my list, I will write a little about him here. Him and
the other nine events that had me working overtime to
gather souls.
Ah, Adolf Hitler, the Fuhrer of Nazi Germany in the
early-mid 20th century. The man responsible for egregious
war crimes and the Holocaust, causing the demise of
millions of innocent souls. Gathering the lost lives from
this era, I found myself working around the clock. At times
I questioned if I’d manage to keep up with his twisted
schemes. Nonetheless, it’s an event that remains seared
into the pages of my diary.
Next up, the World Wars. They were terrible,
destructive events that lasted for years on end. World War
I ushered in a new era of violence and suffering – not just
the soldiers on the frontlines, but also among the millions
of innocents caught in the crossfire. And just when I
thought humanity might have learned its lesson, World
War II reared its ugly head, with even more catastrophic
consequences – certainly not a favorite period in my
lengthy career. I swore at humans then. Not that it had any
effect. But I vociferated so loud, my ears ached. It was
stupid of them. Stupid of you all. Or maybe your
forefathers.
The infamous Roman Emperor, Nero, certainly
deserves a mention in my chronicles. During his reign, his
actions led to despair and anguish for many, as death and
disease ravished the citizens of Rome. From setting the city
ablaze to carrying out brutal executions, Nero’s rule
ensured that my workload remained quite monumental
during his time.
The Terror of the French Revolution undoubtedly left
an indelible mark on my diary. The Reign of Terror, from
1793 to 1794, saw the death of tens of thousands as a result
of gruesome, public executions via the guillotine. Leaders
such as Maximilien Robespierre and Jean-Paul Marat
propagated an atmosphere of fear and suspicion, meaning
I had plenty to do – a time I wouldn’t want to revisit.
The devastating atomic bombings of Hiroshima and
Nagasaki in 1945 will forever be etched in my memory.
The United States’ decision to drop two nuclear bombs on
these Japanese cities left immeasurable carnage in their
wake. Countless souls were ripped from their mortal coils
within seconds, while others suffered from the long-lasting
effects of radiation exposure for extended periods, giving
my diary more stories than I could ever wish for.
Speaking of weapons of mass destruction, let me
transport you back to 1347 when the Black Death – the
infamous plague – tore through Europe with a vengeance.
As the microbial Grim Reaper, the bacterium Yersinia
pestis hastily made its presence known, ultimately causing
the demise of an estimated 75-200 million people.
Needless to say, I worked tirelessly in those four years to
keep up with the overwhelming influx of souls. Most were
little kids, boys and girls, crying for their mama. Are men
really useless? I don’t know. But none of the kids wanted
the bald men. They only cried for mama and her blouse.
Mentioning death and destruction would not be
complete without acknowledging the notorious Joseph
Stalin. Stalin’s dictatorial rule and various policies,
including the Great Purge and forced famines, led to the
demise of millions. These incidents kept me particularly
busy during his time as the leader of the Soviet Union.
The 9/11 terrorist attacks in the United States were
undeniably catastrophic events – a day etched with pain
and shock. The lives lost that fateful day remain vivid in
my memory as I guided the countless souls to their eternal
resting place. This event not only gave me additional work
but also marked the beginning of a new era filled with
uncertainty and fear.
The Rwandan Genocide in 1994 was another
horrifying period that left a lasting imprint on my diary. In
just 100 days, around 800,000 Rwandans – mostly of Tutsi
ethnicity – were brutally massacred, with death becoming a
constant fixture in the region. My work was relentless as I
ushered countless souls for their final journey.
Lastly, the Spanish Influenza pandemic of 1918-1919
is one event that stands out in my worn-out diary.
Approximately 500 million people were infected, and an
estimated 50 million lost their lives during this global
health crisis. As wave after wave of infection took hold, I
continued to guide these unfortunate souls through their
transition, wondering when the relentless flow would cease.
Phew, writing about these things made me tremble a
bit. When the events happened, I didn’t tremble. I just
went to work. Automatically, steadily. Just doing my work.
But now, sitting here and writing it down really made me
tremble. Now to the next chapter. And this time, I promise
you, no dilly-dallying.
FIRST STORY
THE WEEPING POET
His tears were his ink, his whispers his verses, sadness his mood.
CHAPTER 1
The Weeping Poet
He cried. He wept. The tears streaked his paper and
mixed with his ink.
Beneath the last whispers of twilight, I stood on a
quiet, moonlit street, my shadow stretching along the
cobblestones – for even Death admires the silvery glow of
the moon. The chimes of a distant clock tower echoed
through the darkness, signaling midnight’s arrival. It was
time.
Outside a humble abode, a solitary figure, wrapped in
a thick cloak, knelt before the doorstep, his quill scratching
dry ink onto a worn parchment. This was Edward Thorne,
the weeping poet. Though his heart, burdened by sorrows,
had seen better years, his pen flowed, as if guided by the
celestial muse herself.
The stillness of the night embraced his every word,
inscribed with tears of tragedy and deepest yearnings
woven into fragile strands of verse. Here, in these well-
crafted lines, lived an unparalleled beauty that rose from
the ashes of his tormented soul. Though the world knew
him not, his words echoed louder than any mortal could
comprehend.
CHAPTER 2
The Lost City
In the deep chasms of Earth’s forsaken memories, I
found myself drawn to the whispers of a city cradled by
time. Beneath the shifting sands, its remnants were
shrouded in legends and fables, its existence now as faint as
the echoes of dust scattered by desert winds. Yet in my
endless collection of lives, the story of the lost city lay
etched in my eternal consciousness. Thousands of stories
and theories have been put forward to ascertain what
happened to that city. I have always chuckled at the stupid
theories written on cheap papers by overeducated men and
women.
Its inception, I recall, was marked by noble intentions,
just like all cities on earth–a sanctuary for those who sought
refuge from life’s adversities, a beacon of hope among the
barren wastelands. People of all walks of life flocked to its
gates, drawn by the allure of its utopian ideals. The city
grew, and the hum of progress filled the air as brick and
mortar rose toward the heavens, creating a bustling
metropolis that held within the dreams of the countless
souls who walked its streets.
But amidst the opulence and jubilance of the city’s
prosperity, there hid seeds of corruption—just like most
human cities— quietly sprouting sinister tendrils beneath
the gilded adornments. Greed and malice took root in the
hearts of those who held power, leading them to wield it
with deceit and manipulation. The city’s harmonious song
turned discordant, and the once unyielding pillars of virtue
began to crumble under the weight of human hubris.
I watched as the lost city spiraled into its ultimate
demise, its downfall an unstoppable force like the billowing
sands encroaching upon its borders. The final hour
arrived, and I bore witness to the twilight of the last refuge.
Swallowed by the harsh, unforgiving desert, the city
vanished without a trace, its dreams relegated to stories
passed down through generations, its name fading into
obscurity.
And yet, the lost city’s tale remains quietly etched in
time’s vast tapestry, a reminder of the ephemeral nature of
mortal aspirations. As humans cultivate their dreams and
ambitions, they must balance between the perpetual dance
of light and shadow, lest greed and destruction consume
the beauty they strive to create.
Within the relentless sea of shifting sands, the story of
the lost city stands as a testament to the cycle of spawning
and decaying dreams, a whisper from the depths of
oblivion to remind humanity of their inherent fallibility as
they traverse the ever-changing landscape of life. As Death,
I bear witness to these stories, preserving the sacred
fragments of the lost city’s essence, an eternal memory
amidst the fleeting everglades of existence.
Now, I should analyze the events that made the city
lost. It might come as a surprise that the death of an
irrelevant citizen was a factor but most historians do not
know. I also noticed the problems of human history is that
they overlook the masses. Imagine Hitler winning the that
war. Just imagine what the book will contain about Jews.
As my mind traversed the chronicles of the lost city, I
discerned the complex web of interwoven events that had
led to its untimely end. Ruminating on this intricate mosaic
of actions, I recalled one particular individual, always
overlooked by most historians probing the annals of time,
who inadvertently played a surprising role in the city’s
downfall. The irony, I mused, is that one seemingly
insignificant event could set a chain reaction that
reverberates through time’s labyrinth, reshaping destiny.
Everything is connected, like a collection of chains, of
rings. A mild breeze is all it takes to set the chains rattling
against one another. A single event is all it takes to set
destiny rolling.
This forgotten soul, a humble and unassuming worker
– no noble, no ruler, just an ordinary person caught in the
throes of life – found themselves an unlikely harbinger of
change. They labored to support their family, contributing
to the ever-growing city, unaware of the turmoil that
simmered beneath its gleaming façade. Amidst the struggle
for power, greed, and intrigue was this simple,
unremarkable life.
But the faint glow of a dimly burning candle can
sometimes expose the shadows cast by a room’s darkest
corners. Just as the city reached the precipice of its decline,
this unremarkable citizen inadvertently stumbled upon a
clandestine conspiracy, uncovering the malice that thrived
at the very heart of the metropolis. The knowledge, like an
unchained wildfire, spread rapidly through whispers,
inciting unrest and distrust among the people.
Historians often focus on the grand narratives, the
tales of kings and heroes, but in doing so, they frequently
neglect the subtle nuances of human history – the vast
ocean of the masses whose actions, imperceptible and
elusive, have the power to carry profound weight. How
often are simple lives dismissed as inconsequential, their
contributions lost in the echoes of time’s unforgiving
embrace?
Indeed, the lost city’s demise is a poignant reminder
that every human, regardless of their societal status, weaves
together the intricate cloth of our collective narrative. As
Death, I perceive the delicate balance between the well-
known keystones of the past and the unsung footnotes that
dance in the shadows. I embrace the muted stories of the
silent majority, ensuring that their echoes, too, are
enshrined within the annals of fate.
For in the grand tapestry of life, it is perhaps the
quietest yarns that hold the fabric together, tiny strands of
thread keeping the cloth from tearing apart, the solidarity
of the unremembered that maintains the foundation on
which history unfurls. As I recount the lost city’s story, the
hushed murmurs of its seemingly irrelevant citizens emerge
as equally wistful and resolute, a testament to human
persistence in the face of oblivion.
Let us christen this unheralded yet fateful individual as
Joseph Emberly. Upon reconsidering his life's tapestry, a
vivid thread of memory unfurls in the pages of history,
taking us back to a delicate moment shared with his
beloved wife:
Joseph, please, promise me you won't go to the
council chamber tomorrow,”
As I reminisce on that time, the woman’s voice has
me near the verge of pity. Women love men. They just do
not like to show it. Wait until men show their stupidity and
try to face me head-on, that is when women pour the love
out in torrents of tears and beseeching words. I am no
feminist. It is just facts.
His wife, Amelia, implored him as they sat in their
humble dwelling, the breaking dawn illuminating her face,
brimming with worry.
“I can't shake off this sense of unease, as if something
terrible is going to happen.” She might as well be a
prophetess, that woman. The unease she spoke of came.
In a gruesome way.
Her eyes searched his, pleading for reassurance. And
for a moment, his heart wavered under the weight of his
wife's fears, but the burning desire for truth, for unveiling
the dark secrets concealed by the city's walls, drove him
forward. He gently took her hand, offering a bittersweet
smile filled with hidden strength. And then he spoke those
untrue words, those words that people always use
whenever they try to calm the nerves of frightened loved
ones. That stupid but brave suffusion of bravado.
“Amelia, I understand your concerns, but I cannot
turn a blind eye to what I've discovered. We must stand for
what's right. I promise you, my love, I will be cautious, and
my heart will guide my path back to you.”
With that solemn vow, Joseph kissed his wife's
trembling hand, sealing his fate in the wake of the coming
storm. Little did he know that his courage, rooted in his
steadfast belief in truth and justice, would alter the course
of destiny for the now-lost city. Inextricably woven into
history's fabric, Joseph Emberly's tale is a testament to the
indelible impact of a single, seemingly irrelevant life – a tale
often overshadowed by grander narratives, yet still
brilliantly shining in the depths of time's vast ocean. As
Death, I remember those unsung heroes and cherish the
resonance their actions leave behind, echoing through the
eons long after mere mortals have forgotten their names.
As Joseph Emberly’s story unfolded within my eternal
recollections, I was reminded of another tome, a book that
cataloged the names of its own – the Beheader’s Book. It
had streaks of blood, evidence of the owner’s brutality.
Much like my own ledger, the Beheader’s Book
meticulously recorded the lives it intersected with, yet it
exclusively chronicled the fates of the unjust and the
treacherous. He was a Caller and I answered. He called me
with his sword and I was always answering. I came with my
scythe and took the soul. The thieves, murderers, rapists.
And the Innocents. Never forget the Innocents.
Curiously, I noted that Joseph’s name had found its
way into the annals of that ominous book, not as a
malefactor, but as a defiant dissenter who dared to
challenge the shadows of corrupt power. A lamb
challenging a lion. There was an intriguing contrast
between these two ledgers; while Death’s book embraced
the names of all souls, the Beheader’s selectively
immortalized those who fell beneath its sharpened blade.
Despite their similarities, one truth remained absolute:
the Beheader’s name had long been etched within my
ledger, fated to succumb to my cold embrace like countless
others. However, the Beheader’s Book would never hold
the power to contain my own name – for I am a constant in
the cosmos, an ageless force to which all must yield. He
was a coward, I must say. I had quite a laugh on the day he
was to remit his soul. He tried to hang on to life, to wrestle
his soul from me. I allowed him play for awhile but then I
got bored. Besides, they were other souls that needed to be
collected. So I snapped it. I conveyed it to the place where
all souls be.
Alas, Joseph’s sole chance of reclaiming a place in the
annals of human history was mercilessly torn asunder by a
biased historian, eager to erase the legacy of courage and
truth from future generations’ eyes. This deliberate act of
erasure consigned him to the shadows, confined amongst
the forgotten whispers of the ancients. And in its place was
a ruler, whitewashed and book-righteoused.
And so, just as the city was lost, swallowed by the
relentless tides of time and the unforgiving desert sands, so
too was Joseph’s name lost, his memory dissolved amidst
the hushed echoes of history. I remember the unfading
embers of his noble spirit, their glow a testament to the
ardent power of the unsung in the everlasting tapestry of
human existence.
“In the vast expanse of time, a man and a city stood,
their fates entwined in the cosmic dance of the universe.
Both found themselves lost, neither saved, their echoes
lingering in the silence of history’s forgotten corners, a
poignant reminder of the fragility of existence, transcending
the boundaries of the mortal realm. Both not listening to
the warnings.”
As I stood perched upon the precipice of time, gazing
upon the intricate tapestry of Joseph Emberly's story, my
ageless heart ached with an unparalleled yearning. In silent
solidarity, I wished to save him–not just for his own merit,
but for the devotion and love that radiated between him
and his beloved Amelia. Such love transcended even the
most formidable darkness that had befallen the lost city.
And yet, I was powerless to intervene. For I am Death, the
gateway between realms, and duty commands me to
remain impartial to the trials and tribulations faced by the
mortals whose paths I cross. As a mere observer, bound by
the dictates of existence, my role is not one of salvation or
destruction, but rather an inevitability that lies in wait for
every soul. Orders were orders, and my purpose was to
witness, to collect, and to remember. To write. With a
solemn sigh, I relinquished my fleeting desire to intervene,
accepting the immutable constraints of my ethereal role. As
Joseph Emberly's memory merged with the myriad of
others in the eternal expanse of consciousness, so too
remained the lesson that even Death, the great equalizer,
cannot alter the ebbs and flows of the river of fate. All souls
must navigate these waters on their own, unaided by the
silent traveler who walks beside them. I am only a pipe to
conduct this souls, not the tank to hold them.
Mind you, the name is not Joseph. For privacy
reasons, I have decided to change the name. I don’t want
you ransacking libraries for research. And I know humans
will definitely make a movie of him. Poor movies with
stupid plots. And fake stunts. Eew. Whoever told humans
they knew how to act must be kidding.
THIRD STORY
THE WANDERER'S VOYAGE
A step, then thousands. He walks, surely and steadily. His feet
etched stoutly on the sand. Travelling is his science, wandering
his philosophy. His sack contains treasures only the desert
cherishes. His legs are rocks, solid, always moving. And he rests
at last.
CHAPTER 3
The wanderer's voyage.
As I glided along the shores of time, I encountered a
soul whose fervent determination stirred my somber heart.
Though incapable of pity or cruelty, I felt compelled to tell
this soul’s story—a delicate chapter in the grand tale of
humanity’s ceaseless quest for understanding.
Borne by the winds and carried by the waves, the
wanderer sailed through innumerable oceans, unraveling
the mysteries that lay beneath the surface. Driven by an
insatiable curiosity and thirst for answers, this ambitious
adventurer embarked upon an audacious voyage. From
one horizon to another, from twilight to dawn, the
wanderer charted a course into uncharted realms—a
landscape that bore the sighs of countless souls both cursed
and blessed.
One fateful night, as the moon concealed its face
within a veil of clouds, a fierce storm descended upon the
wanderer’s vessel. But the heavens themselves knew not
whether to pour forth tears or thunder upon this lonely
figure—a human heartbeat entwined with the echoes of
eternity. He was just a little insignificant breathing piece of
flesh. Not relevant.
While the ravenous waves threatened to devour the
tiny ship and the eternal squalls tore at its tattered sails, the
wanderer would not surrender to despair. He was heady
and stubborn. Against this formidable tempest, a flame
burned within the solitary soul—a feverish yearning for the
mysteries concealed within life’s unfathomable depths.
Deftly navigating the abyss of darkness, the wanderer
remained unyielding in their pursuit of truth. Each glimpse
of the sea’s lustful embrace in the moonlight, each sigh
heaved by the wind’s mournful breath,
While the ravenous waves threatened to devour the
tiny ship and the eternal squalls tore at its tattered sails, the
wanderer would not surrender to despair. Against this
formidable tempest, a flame burned within the solitary
soul—a feverish yearning for the mysteries concealed within
life’s unfathomable depths.
Deftly navigating the abyss of darkness, the wanderer
remained unyielding in their pursuit of truth. Each glimpse
of the sea’s lustful embrace in the moonlight, each sigh
heaved by the wind’s mournful breath, served to steel their
resolve and drive them deeper into the storm’s heart.
CHAPTER 4
The Silent Composer.
Amid the boundless tapestry of human existence,
there are those souls whose stories resonate with a
harmonic beauty that transcends the barriers of our
ephemeral reality. This is the tale of the Silent Composer—
a testament to the indescribable power wherein passion,
creativity, and deft determination converge.
Born into a world forever obscured by the numbing
veil of silence, the Silent Composer was deaf from birth.
Unable to perceive the aural palettes that paint the delicate
symphony of life, the child was left bereft of the
intoxicating melodies and harmonies that we often take for
granted.
Yet, beneath the deafening silence, the flame of
possibility burned bright. Steeled by love and support, the
child was raised in a nurturing environment—fueled by a
desire to conquer the seemingly inaccessible realm of
sound. Thus, seeds of ambition and creativity were sown; it
was only a matter of time before they would burst forth
into unparalleled splendor.
And as the years passed, the Silent Composer toiled
incessantly, harnessing an innate predilection for rhythm
and melody. With fingers trembling upon the piano keys,
they traced intricate patterns across the void of silence,
crafting a symphony of imagined sound that resonated
deep within the chambers of their soul.
Such is the power of human creativity, that even in the
absence of hearing, the Silent Composer’s spirit was aglow
with music—a resplendent tapestry woven from the silken
threads of intuition, emotion, and the deepest recesses of
the subconscious.
News of this extraordinary maestro soon began to
reverberate through the valleys and mountains of human
experience. Audiences flocked to witness the enigmatic
Silent Composer, captivating the world with powerful
melodies that celebrated the triumph of passion over
adversity.
And therein, I found myself entranced by this mortal
testimony to the potential that lies within us all. The Silent
Composer’s music, transcending the limitations of earthly
existence, appeared to flutter at the very edge of my eternal
domain. Through the mastery of their art, the composer
danced upon the line between life and death, deferring my
presence indefinitely.
My shadow fell upon the jubilant faces of the
audience, yet none could perceive my presence. For in
those moments, enraptured by the exquisite majesty of the
Silent Composer’s music, I was inconspicuous—an
observer of the profound connection between the ethereal
and the corporeal.
The Silent Composer's story shall echo through the
ages as an ode to the indubitable strength of mortal passion
and the unyielding persistence of those who leap over the
barriers that seek to confine us. Here, I stand, a silent
witness to the tale of a soul that surpassed human limits,
entangling even me, Death itself, in the eternal dance of
life’s miraculous symphony.
As I continued observing the Silent Composer’s
extraordinary achievements, a seed of doubt began to
sprout within the depths of my eternal domain. I found it
challenging to reconcile the notion that such a brilliant soul
could truly be deaf, and yet possess the ability to weave
melodies that enraptured even the stillest of hearts.
Driven by an insatiable curiosity, I began to investigate
the veracity of the composer’s auditory affliction. I
endeavored to unravel the mysteries concealed within the
spaces separating the human body and the ethereal; I
delved into the fabric of mortal life, seeking evidence that
would attest to the composer’s deafness.
Visiting the composer’s past, I witnessed the soul’s
infancy—devoid of sound, yet brimming with potential.
Observing closely as the child responded to a cacophony
of passing notes, I discerned the undeniable truth. The
composer was indeed deaf, and there existed a profound
chasm between the cacophony of the world and this soul’s
enigmatic silence.
Convinced that the Silent Composer’s story was
genuine, I took solace in the power of human
determination, silently marveling at the composer's ability
to traverse the fathomless voids of silence, and transform
their very essence into unparalleled symphonies.
The passage of time is relentless; even the brightest
stars in the vast celestial expanse eventually succumb to the
encroaching darkness of night. As twilight dimmed upon
the horizon of the Silent Composer’s life, I knew our paths
would entwine once more. AND IT WILL BE FINAL.
The mortal body, weary from a lifetime of fruitful
toils, began to falter. I watched the composer’s spirit, once
so vibrant and exuberant, slowly wane under the shadow of
impending fate. Like the faint sound of a piano wailing
Faraway, nearly inaudible.
And as the world mourned the passing of a masterful
luminary, I found myself standing before the Silent
Composer once more. The warmth of life had retreated,
replaced with the cold, indomitable reality of my touch.
Embracing the composer’s spirit with the softest of
whispers, I guided them towards the infinite tapestry of
eternity. Together, we wove their essence into the fabric of
the eternal symphony that defines the cosmos—an elegy
forever commemorating the miraculous interplay between
sound and silence.
The Silent Composer’s story remained imprinted
upon the pages of human experience—a lasting testament
to the indomitable nature of the human spirit and the
transcendent power of passion in breaching even the most
impenetrable barriers.
Chorus:
Celestial resonance, harmonies untold
In the deafening silence, I will be bold
With every touch, a melody unchained
A symphony of passion, my spirit uncontained
Verse 2:
The cosmic dance, the rhythm of the night
The whispers of the moon, guiding me to light
Though silence engulfs me, I feel the love
Transcending limitations, like a soaring dove
Chorus:
Celestial resonance, harmonies untold
In the deafening silence, I will be bold
With every touch, a melody unchained
A symphony of passion, my spirit uncontained
Bridge:
For every unspoken word, a poignant note
A gentle lullaby from the depths I wrote
In embracing the silence and hues unseen,
My heart and soul create a love serene
Chorus:
Celestial resonance, harmonies untold
In the deafening silence, I will be bold
With every touch, a melody unchained
A symphony of passion, my spirit uncontained
Verse 1:
In the quiet of my world, I hear your call
An ethereal presence, our hearts enthrall
Through the soundless echo, my love unfurled
A serenade etched in the air, forever swirled
Chorus:
Silent serenade, a love that never wanes
Connecting our hearts, transcending earthly chains
In a world of whispers, we’ll sing our song
Our bond enlivened, forever strong
Verse 2:
As I discover every note, in the stormy mire
You, my love, ignite my heart’s blazing fire
In the absence of sound, a love profound
Within the stillness, my gentle heartbeat is found
Chorus:
Silent serenade, a love that never wanes
Connecting our hearts, transcending earthly chains
In a world of whispers, we’ll sing our song
Our bond enlivened, forever strong
Bridge:
For every tender touch, I find my grace
Embracing the silence as our hearts race
In the calm dusk, our love will bloom
A canvas of light within the gloom
Chorus:
Silent serenade, a love that never wanes
Connecting our hearts, transcending earthly chains
In a world of whispers, we’ll sing our song
Our bond enlivened, forever strong
CHAPTER 5
The Ageless Philosopher
Next story on my list is a philosopher’s. I divulge the
captivating tale of an ageless philosopher whose life has
become intertwined with my own. As the of souls and the
final embrace of all mortal beings, I have quietly observed
this immortal sage throughout countless millennia. From
my unique vantage point, I have had the privilege of seeing
empires crumble, while nature’s beauty blossoms one day
only to wither the next.
When I first encountered this philosopher, I was
intrigued by his ability to withstand the ravages of time. It
was as though he had discovered the secret to evade my
grasp, and from that moment, I felt compelled to shadow
his journey in search of the elusive knowledge that set him
apart.
As I chronicled his experiences, I found myself
shifting roles, from the harbinger of an inevitable
conclusion to an enthusiastic student, eager to unwrap the
wisdom emanating from this ageless soul. He traversed the
shifting sands of history, and his presence in both triumph
and tragedy was the ever-present thread that bound
humanity’s narrative together. Far beyond time and space,
he sought to impart what he had learned—the profound yet
simple understanding that everything in creation is
transient, and that even the mightiest monuments
ultimately succumb to my lullaby. I am a pretty bad singer
but it makes them sleep anyways.
Though at times he was misunderstood, the
philosopher’s message resounded across the eons: the
significance of treasuring each fleeting moment, embracing
the impermanence that defines our world, and accepting
the delicate balance of this mortal existence. The words
that echoed from his lips served as a constant reminder of
the cosmic dance that played out before us—a harmonious
symphony of beginnings and endings.
As I continue to chart the tale of this ageless
philosopher, it dawns upon me that his immortality is not
an escape from my grasp, but instead, a harmonious
partnership woven with lessons for the living. Together, we
strive to illuminate the transient beauty of life’s fleeting
moments, casting a gentle glow upon each precious
memory, and holding them close to our hearts for eternity.
Among the myriad philosophies this ageless sage has
imparted, one in particular garners my highest regard: a
profound understanding that pain and loss are as essential
to life’s tapestry as joy and triumph. This unconventional
teaching stems from the belief that true wisdom and growth
are earned through the acceptance and embrace of life’s
transient nature.
As Death, it is often thought that my actions are
limited to the realm of sorrow, but in truth, I foster growth
and regeneration in equal measure. The philosopher’s
sentiment recognizes death itself as not merely a final act,
but an intrinsic aspect of life’s magnificent cycle. A LINK
TO TOUCH ANOTHER CHAIN in the WHEEL OF
LIFE. It is through the acknowledgment of mortality and
the impermanence of all things that we can navigate our
journeys with introspection, humility, and the knowledge
that our lives are enriched by these experiences.
Observing humanity through his immortal lens, the
philosopher bears witness to the beautiful kaleidoscope of
emotions that paint our time-bound existences. From the
poignant sting of loss to the soaring heights of love and
connection, he understands that the sum of these moments
is what shapes our souls and grants true meaning to life.
YOU MAY WONDER THAT I SAY 'OUR'. THE
FACT IS THAT I AM ALSO HERE BUT FOR A
WHILE. AFTER THE LAST SOUL IS DELIVERED, I
WILL CEASE TO EXIST. GONE. FOREVER. I still
wonder who will take my soul.
As such, his philosophy resonates deeply with my very
essence, championing the delicate balance between
beginnings and endings that I represent. In the spaces
between life and death, this ageless philosopher unravels
the spiritual threads that weave our shared story, urging us
to find courage and wisdom in the face of life’s ceaselessly
changing landscape. It is through his teachings that a
harmonious partnership takes form, linking our
intertwined
fates and echoing the eternal dance of life and death in
the hearts of all who heed his wisdom.
In my endless journey as the reaper of souls, I, too,
am not just a physical embodiment but a philosophy unto
myself. Throughout the ages, I have been viewed not
merely as an entity but as an idea, a notion that has shaken
the very core of human beliefs and inspired contemplation
on life, existence, and mortality.
By embracing the philosophy that I represent, one can
attain a profound understanding of the natural cycle that
governs our world. My presence reminds humankind that
life and death are not separate experiences, but rather
complementary forces that drive the endless rhythm of
creation and dissolution.
In the eyes of the ageless philosopher, my philosophy
serves as a reminder of the ephemeral beauty of existence,
fostering gratitude for each fleeting experience and the
opportunity it affords us to grow and evolve. Much like the
sage’s own teachings, my presence encourages reflection,
humility, and resilience in the face of life’s ever-shifting
circumstances.
Despite the fact that we may seem to exist on opposite
ends of the spectrum, the ageless philosopher and I share a
common understanding that pain and loss can foster
wisdom, compassion, and strength. Just like my diary and
the Beheader’s book. By confronting the reality of my
existence, one can better appreciate the precious nature of
those transient moments of joy and connection.
Together, our philosophies form a harmonious
connection that transcends time and space, merging the
boundless wisdom of an immortal soul with the cyclical
nature of my eternal presence. It is from this foundation
that our unique partnership blooms—a symphony of life,
death, and the beautiful chaos that governs our transient
world.
“In the harmonious dance of life and death, we find
the wisdom to embrace the transient beauty of existence,
weaving together moments of joy, pain, and transformation
into an eternal tapestry.”
NOTE: THE PHILOSOPHER IS NOT WHOM
YOU HAVE IN MIND!
SIXTH STORY
THE INVENTOR'S DREAM
Give me that scrap of metal, I shall add it to something mental.
And your task will be quicker than you pay tax!
CHAPTER 6
The Inventor's Dream
I revisit the fascinating tale of a visionary inventor
whose passion for innovation carved a lasting impact on
human lives. As the eternal observer, it has been my
privilege to witness countless stories interwoven in the rich
tapestry of existence, yet the tale of this inventor struck a
chord within me, transcending the boundaries of life and
death.
I watched in awe as this extraordinary dreamer bent
the very fabric of reality, their unwavering dedication and
relentless determination pushing the limits of what was
once thought possible. I was captivated by the way their
groundbreaking inventions rippled through time, touching
lives and inspiring countless generations to embark on their
own journeys of ingenuity and exploration.
In the midst of their triumphs and tribulations, the
inventor’s journey became a testament to the resilience of
the human spirit and a vivid reminder of the colossal
potential we possess when we dare to reach beyond our
perceived limitations. As each invention transformed the
world, I, Death , saw the beautiful interconnectedness of
our existence, and the ripple effects of these innovations
transcended borders and cultures, proving that the legacy
of creativity can indeed surpass the transience of mortal
life.
Following the inventor’s inspiring path, I marveled at
the responsibility that innovation bestows—each
manipulation of knowledge and technology held the power
to shift paradigms and sculpt the future we all share. I
realized that in many ways, life and death are entwined with
the art of creation, for it is through ingenuity and the
constant quest for progress that humanity can find new
meaning and purpose, even in the face of my eternal
embrace.
As I pen this chapter in my everlasting chronicle, I
invite readers to delve into the depths of this inventor’s
dream, reflect on the boundless potential hidden within the
realms of curiosity and imagination, and embark on their
own adventurous quests—carving their unique marks upon
the annals of time, just as the inventor did, in the vast
cosmic dance between life, creation, and death.
He was an inventor of unparalleled brilliance, and as I
began to recount the tale of his wondrous journey in my
diary, I found myself intrigued by the essence of his
inexhaustible creativity. As Death—the eternal observer—I
have been privy to countless stories, and yet it was this
visionary whose imagination transcended the limitations of
mortal life, reshaping the world with each ingenious
masterpiece he brought into existence.
From his groundbreaking discoveries to the marvels of
his engineering prowess, I was captivated by the path he
wove through history. With each success and setback, the
inventor became a testament to the indomitable human
spirit, reflecting the boundless potential that lies in wait
when we dare to challenge the perceived confines of
possibility.
As I traced the impact of his remarkable
contributions, I marveled at the intricate web of
interconnectedness that binds us all, rippling through time
and space. His innovations did not only exist within his
mortal days but echoed across generations, transcending
borders and unifying cultures in the pursuit of knowledge
and advancement.
With every new invention, I began to see the
incredible responsibility that rested on the inventor’s
shoulders—the power to reshape the future and redefine
the human experience. His journey served as a poignant
reminder that the art of creation is intrinsically entwined
with the dance of life and death, for it is our capacity for
ingenuity that enables us to grasp for meaning and purpose
even in the face of my eternal presence.
But sometimes, he stole—not material possessions, but
snippets of knowledge and inspiration from the myriad
sources that surrounded him, I expounded upon the
ingenuity that stemmed from his relentless curiosity, even
if, at times, it meant treading the fine line between
propriety and deceit. SOMETIMES HE WAS A
CONMAN AND HIS GOAL OF INVENTION
CLOUDED HIS SENSE OF HUMANITY.
As Death, my impartial gaze allowed me to perceive
his actions without judgment, granting me clarity in
comprehending the nuances of his complex character.
While his role as a creator was undeniably infused with
brilliance and passion, his methods occasionally strayed
from the conventional path as he absorbed the seeds of
ideas from his encounters with fellow inventors, the natural
world, and the myriad of experiences and knowledge he
hunted.
In the grand tapestry of human history, his
transgressions were infinitesimal shrouds of shadow amid
the blinding light of his life’s work. However, these very
imperfections rendered his tale of innovation and
resilience all the more resonant to readers of my chronicle.
As they wandered the labyrinthine halls of his creations
and discoveries, they bore witness to the human struggle
for progress, recognizing that even the immortal figures of
history are not exempt from the frailties and complexities
inherent in our existence.
As the inventor’s life neared its final moments, a spark
of inspiration illuminated his imagination one last time.
Driven by the urgency to breathe life into his closing
masterpiece, he scribbled frenetic notes, poured over
intricate diagrams, and painstakingly assembled the
skeleton of what he hoped would be his magnum opus—a
grand device designed to unite the world, erasing barriers
and redefining communication as it had ever been known.
As Death, I watched with bated breath, finding myself
inexplicably invested in the completion of this unfinished
symphony, sensing the power it held to leave an indelible
mark upon the annals of history. However, even the
greatest inventors are bound by their mortal coils, and a
delicate urgency pulsed beneath the surface as the
hourglass emptied of its sands and the clock inevitably
ticked toward an inexorable conclusion.
In the end, the cruel hands of time outpaced his
fervent determination, and I arrived to claim his soul,
finding him feverishly toiling in his workshop, surrounded
by scattered blueprints and the remnants of his final
creation. As I extended my hand to guide him into my
embrace, we locked eyes, and for an eternal instant, I saw
the lament of unfinished dreams mingling with the pride of
a lifetime of brilliant achievements.
And with that, the fragile threads of his life slipped
quietly into the twilight, leaving behind the legacy of his
inventions and the unfinished symphony of his final
masterpiece. Moments later, I penned this last poignant
scene into my diary, immortalizing the story of a luminary
whose courage, curiosity, and passion for creation had
transcended the boundaries of time, space, and even the
inevitable grasp of Death itself—forever echoing as a
testament to the undying power of the human spirit.
And he had a dream. The dream was his inventions
to crumble and die away. He realized too late that their
disadvantages far outweigh their goodness. But it is too late.
Far too late. Not when you all clutch to those murderous
metals with clawlike fingers, PULLING BACK COILY
METALS AND CALLING ME. ALWAYS. NEVER-
ENDING. BOOM BOOM BOOM.
See? Another gunshot. Another caller. Another soul
to collect. All results of an invention.
Then there came that fateful day. A day just like any
other, adorned with lighter moments and heartfelt laughter,
a day where sorrow and pain had seemingly retreated to
the shadows. It was on this day that I received the
command – the whisper from beyond to wield my scythe
and claim their souls.