Tommy Masterson’s mother looked him over. She grabbed him by the chin and twisted his face this way and that, making little noises of dissaproval as she ticked off items on some hidden checklist.
She ran her thumb across his lips, stopping at the corner where a dab of blood had dried. She pulled his eyes level with hers and, putting her forefinger beneath the left one, pressed firmly at its puffed outer edges. He winced in pain. “It’ll probably be black,” she said gruffly.
But these weren’t the wounds that worried her. Boys will be boys, after all. She’d had three brothers growing up who could always be counted on to remind her of that. No, a little roughhousing was to be expected.
It was the two small ovular bruises at the base of Tommy’s neck that had her hairs standing on end. She tried to hide her disquiet, but Tommy, in addition to being rowdy and generally untamed, was also fairly astute.
“Stop worrying,” he protested. “Everybody knows they’re harmless now.”
“Harmless?”
“He had a pretty good left hook I guess, but you know what I mean. They can’t really hurt us anymore.”
“What if he’d broken the skin, Tommy? His teeth have been filed down but if he’d bitten you hard enough he could’ve punctured the skin and…”
“And nothing. Mom, it’s not just their teeth. They’ve all been sterilized. Come on, you know this.”
“Do I? Should I just trust everything the government and media tell me? Look, I just don’t think it’s smart to take chances. I mean, there are two hundred other boys in your class. Can’t you fight one that isn’t a couple of generations removed from seeing us as livestock?”
“Mom, I love you. But you have to relax. The Vs are domesticated now. They get to live life on the grid with Netflix and Amazon Prime, and we have a bunch of mooks to work all the graveyard shifts no human wants. It’s a win-win all around.”
“Just be careful,” his mother entreated. But Tommy didn’t hear, as he’d already bounded into the next room determined to test his theory that he could do a backflip off of the sofa.
The old man lay in his bed, his breath shallow, each rise and fall of his chest a slow, measured struggle. Outside, the soft murmur of a fading day filtered through the open window—leaves rustling in the gentle evening breeze, the last call of a bird settling in for the night.
He’d always loved the quiet at this hour. But tonight, the stillness seemed to carry more weight. His vision blurred, unfocused, and his thoughts drifted far away, as though his mind had already begun to untether itself from his body.
In that hazy space between consciousness and whatever lay beyond, the thought struck him with sudden clarity—that life was nothing more than an endless series of goodbyes.
He could see them, each moment playing out before him like an old film reel flickering in the dark. His mother’s soft, tired smile the day she’d waved him off to school for the first time, her frail arms wrapped in the apron she always wore. He hadn’t known it then, but that was the first goodbye, the first step toward all the others that would follow.
Then his father, stern but kind, clapping him on the shoulder the day he’d left for the city, off to chase dreams of work and fortune. That farewell had come with the unspoken understanding that nothing would ever be the same again.
There were so many. Friends he’d drifted apart from, lovers whose hands he’d held only to let go, children who had grown and gone on to lead their own lives. Even the things he hadn’t said goodbye to—his youth, his strength, his certainty—had slipped away silently over time.
He realized that life had been preparing him for this final moment all along. Every departure, every loss, every small parting had been a rehearsal for this—the last goodbye.
As his breathing grew fainter, the memories blurred together into a single, soft-edged mosaic. There was no bitterness in the thought. In a strange way, it brought him a kind of peace. What else had life been but a long, slow process of learning how to let go? Of things, of people, of time itself.
The last rays of sun disappeared beyond the horizon, the day drawing its own quiet valediction. The old man’s eyes fluttered closed, and with one final breath, he gave his last goodbye to the world.
And it, in turn, gently let him go.
I am made entirely of flaws, stitched together by good intentions, Prone to error without cause Known to leap but fail to mention This or that Some little thing Just a trifle, really But despite its size A bee still stings So at the risk of sounding silly Accept from me This apology Know the contours of my heart Hear my stupid, throaty pleas Don’t let me tear us apart I am bad And you are good I know that isn’t fair But you’ve seen in me Things I never could I just pray that they’re still there
She painted pretty faces Pretended everything’s alright But the truth finally came to light
He wiped away the tears Kept them hidden out of sight But the truth finally came to light
They fought to keep their secrets Yeah they tried with all their might Never talked about the many things That kept them up at night Avoided disagreement But sometimes life is worth the fight
The truth finally came to light
“I have to pick up my wife,” the man says to me, without provocation.
“O..k?”
“I know, why would I tell a perfect stranger that I have to pick up my wife. On the bus of all places. Do you know what kind of people ride a bus? Well, I ride a bus, and so do you and you don’t look like a bad person. Well, not too bad anyway. Did you know buses were invented in Germany? I don’t know why but that just seems like a very German thing to invent doesn’t it?”
My face must betray my confusion, because his expression contorts into a sort of sympathetic half-frown. “I have to pick up my wife,” he offers again, as explanation. “But I don’t always remember so well. I get—distracted.”
“I’m sorry,” I reply, still not entirely sure what it is that I’m apologizing for.
“Had an accident,” he admits, shamefully. “Hurt my head. I don’t usually leave the house, but my wife, she..” he trails off, shifting his gaze to the windows.
“She what?” I press.
He stares at me, blankly.
“Something about your wife?”
“Ah,” he smiles, almost sadly. “She’s from the city, you know. Right around here. We were going to live here after we graduated, but then we got pregnant, and you know how that goes. Moved to the suburbs and never looked back.”
My concern growing, I try to steer him back to the point. “I’m sorry, sir, but it seems like you may have been telling me that something happened to your wife?”
I see the recognition this time, almost as if his pupils come into sharper focus. “Oh,” he chuckles softly, “I’m sorry, I get distracted sometimes. My wife, she had a heart attack at the bank today. I don’t usually leave the house, but the man on the phone said to get there right away.”
“Oh, sir, let me help you. What hospital is she at?”
“Mercy Street Baptist.”
“Mercy Street Bap—didn’t that place…”
“I hope she’s ok. I already know what she’ll say. She’ll say it just figures I’d die two weeks before the world ends. It just figures.”
“Two weeks before the—“
“I keep telling her that Mayan stuff is baloney, but she won’t listen. She’s gonna be embarrassed when we wake up the day after. I’ll tell you that for free.”
“Mayan. End of the world. But wasnt that December 2012?”
“Yeah, in two weeks. According to my wife, anyway.” He pauses again to watch the bright lights of a cinema marquee come and go. “I hope she’s ok.”
A knot wells in my throat, and my chest feels tight. The driver announces “Broadway,” and I hear myself say, “I’m sorry, this is my stop.” He smiles, amiably enough.
As I walk to the door, out of the corner of my eye I see a newly boarded passenger sitting down beside him. She nods perfunctorily.
“I have to go pick up my wife,” he tells her, unprovoked.
The stars were what she liked most about the sky Then, they started to fall One by one they disappeared from view Until there were none at all
She sat in her window, her eyes affixed, To the infinite, endless night For what, she wondered, perhaps just to ponder The memory of the thing she once knew as light
How lonely it felt, this empty abyss, this deep and dreamless sleep This probing, gnawing, grating silence And the secrets it promised to keep
It was 7pm in Wisteria. On Main Street, Sadie Kimble flipped the big blue sign in her store window. “Cl😊sed,” it read, since some years before her daughter colored in the O and made it a smiley face.
Down the block, the giant flood lights over Hank’s Auto switched off and Hank’s brother, Earl, pulled chains across the entrance and exit.
At Suwanee Bank, young Lydia Nix exited in a huff. She dropped her keys attempting to lock up and then dropped them once more trying to get in her car. Earl slowed his truck as he passed. “Out a little late, aren’t we Lydia,” he shouted, before bursting into a hoarse half-cackle, half-cough.
Lydia returned the sentiment with a pair of middle fingers held high, but if it bothered Earl, it didn’t show. Before he crossed over the hill and under the town’s only stoplight, he could be heard saying “good luuuuuck.”
Finally in her car, Lydia frantically jammed the keys into the ignition. When at last the car roared to life, though, something was off. It was set to A.M. radio.
“The fuck?” she whispered, “is that the 700 Club?”
“It is, dear,” came a sweet, oddly malicious sounding voice behind her. Lydia’s eyes shot to her rearview mirror, where Esther Maybanks smiling face awaited her. Her blue eyes and short, white hair were surrounded by a black hat and face paint. Her lipstick, though, was as red as ever.
And she was holding a knife.
Lydia jumped out of the car and sprinted up the avenue. As she ran, other similarly clad figures exited the shadows around her. She could distinctly make out the silhouette of portly Paul Whitesell, her Sunday school teacher as a child. “Lydia,” he called as she passed, “come out to playyyyyyy.”
“Excuse me. Can you pass the salt?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, yeah, sure. Here you g-ohhhhh fuck. Fuck me. Are you? I mean - oh fuck you are, aren’t you?”
“What do you - oh, sonuva - my cloaking device went out again didnt it? Of course it did. You know, I’d swear to God those things don’t work as well as they used to, but really I should swear to God’s accounting department. They’re the stingy bastards who wont buy new ones. I mean, honestly, why does money even exist in the afterlife.”
“Holy shit it is you. It’s Death. Wait. Does that mean - am i…dead?
“Don’t know. How’s that coffee?”
“Terrible.”
“You seem alive enough to me.”
“Am i gong to die?”
“I mean, yeah, eventually. You’re human, so you’ve got like 105 years tops. And thats a pretty big stack of bacon, plus you smell like you smoke, so you probably shouldnt set your sights too high.”
“That’s not-“
“And youre a few pounds overweight too. This is a wild guess, so dont hold me to it, but I’m gonna say 76.”
“76?”
“When you croak.”
“Croak?”
“Ribbit ribbit.”
“You know, you’re a lot more flippant that i would’ve expected you to be.”
“How did you expect me to be?”
“I dunno dude, you’re Death. Its a solemn job. Guess i thought you’d be…solemn.
“Do you know how long we live?”
“You’re…alive?”
“Not the same way you are, but for purposes of this discussion, yes. So, do you know? Millenia. I’m not even eligible for retirement until I’m 4,000 years old.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. I’ve been working this post since Jesus was still just a baby in a barn. If i was solemn all the damn time I’d never make it.”
“I bet.”
“Honestly, I’m here on holiday. I came in last August to take this blue hair - Angelica, i think was her name - and saw a sign for Disney. As soon as i got back i put in for a full week off. Haven’t done that in centuries.”
“So you could go to Disney.”
“Oh don’t tell me you’re one of those.”
“One of who?”
“The Disney is woke crowd. I just wanna go eat an elephant ear and ride Dumbo. Can i do that without a sermon please?”
“Oh im not…”
“Everything with you people has to be so black and white. My candidate will save our country. Yours is the devil. Like no, theyre both pretty bad. Trust me; I’d know.”
“No i just meant - well, who’s doing the job while you’re gone?”
“Oh, Kent.”
“Kent?”
“Yes. Is that a problem?”
“No its just Kent doesnt seem like a fitting name for the profession. You go from Death, to Kent.”
“Wait, do you think my name is Death?
“Yes?”
“It’s Brian.”
“Brian?”
“Yes.”
“Your name is Brian?”
“Ugh. I’m really going to complain about these cloaking devices.”
