This is a short story, in 775 words.
It was prompted by the above photo, sent to me by Fraggle.
The Grim Reaper was really bored now. If it carried on like this, he might well end up being made redundant. And he had always thought of it as a job for life.
Not that there hadn’t been good times. He thought of them fondly, recalling the carnage in his mind’s eye. The Black Death had kept him busy, and he had even put in for overtime at the peak of that epidemic. Naturally, it had been declined. But still, he had argued it was justified. He didn’t get a minute off in more than eight years. Then there was the Spanish Flu. He would like to have shaken hands with whoever first spread that contagion, instead of just reaping in his unknown soul. Still his biggest success in…
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