I have lain here for more than a hundred years, every morning for thirty five minutes. Come rain, wind or shine. I like it best when my body is cold, the rain patting softly against my chest, my brown hair entangled in the long grey-green grass. I live in a time where women are persecuted, men are lazy and children are adored. I lie here arms outstretched as if reaching all away around this dying planet.

I am one hundred and thirty eight years old. I’m tired, bored of being alive and I long for my two hundredth birth-day when I can lie in my spot and pass to the other side. I will raise my cold, blue hand gently and wave. They will see me from afar, my signal. My signal that I want to die and leave this odd existence.

Then the bodies, in white, will draw near yet I cannot make their faces? Their presence is not good nor evil. They just are. I don’t even care to think much of what they will do, but I’ve heard rumour that their way is quick. But I have a long time to live before I can start to feel joyous of my departure.

When I was five I was given the title of ‘Keeper’. My parents were proud but hesitant.

Author note; just an intro at the moment