A conversation with Death

A conversation with Death

Death came through my door quietly.
I was lying in bed, thinking random thoughts ruminating without purpose when it glided in.
I didn’t scream, though its appearance may be startling. I didn’t even say much at all at first. Maybe I was shocked? Probably just apathetic.
“Hello” death said and stared into my soul.
“Hello” I answered.
“You can now advocate” death held its stare, giving nothing away.
“Advocate what?”
“Advocate for your life”
I think it was attempting a reassuring smile, but all I could see was an endless pit of existence.
“I’m not sure I can, not really” I replied.
“You can beg, you can scream, you may cry”
I searched inside for the emotions, “I’m not really feeling it” I said after a pause.
“Feeling it?”
“You know, life?” I sat up and looked into its eyes and the pool of eternity there beyond. “I’d like to say something eloquent about allotted time, chances and dues, but I’m just not feeling so inclined. Do I follow you?” I asked and stood up.
“You should attempt” death said blankly.
“Attempt to what?” I felt out of place standing in front of death in my pajamas.
“To fight for your life”
“I’ve never had much fight in me really, I haven’t done much or tried. That might sound like an argument but I don’t say this with regret, it’s just the facts” I moved past death heading for the door, and as I did it was as if I could see people floating about beyond it, but death stopped me with a cold yet gentle hand.
“You are young, and as you have said, quite inexperienced. There is a lot out there in your world. Colours, flavours. You should speak up. Fight for it”.
Death had a point. I knew that it did but I still couldn’t summon the emotion necessary for a plea, “What do you say though when all that stands out is the bad stuff, the rising tides of evil and all that?”
Death paused, almost frowning, though his was more an ocean of past lives, “is there nothing that you would like to be here for tomorrow? Something that you are waiting for in the near or distant future, anything at all?”
“Well,” I smiled “like any living human, I would love to read the last two books of a Song of Ice and Fire.”
“A Song of Ice and Fire?”
“George Martin’s Game of Thrones.”
“Ah, of course” Death said. “You said that you would love to. Love. There lies your argument.”
“Love for a book? Wanting to read the end of a story I’ve invested months of my life to? Wanting to know how something ends? I don’t see how that is your smoking gun” I was a bit incredulous.
Death flared, his shades of black darkening in a way that wasn’t quite definable.
“Loving a book is to love reading, enjoying fiction is to rejoice in life, searching for the end of a story is to care about something and anticipation holds hands with excitement and bliss as well as disappointment or the possibility thereof. Thus I see in you a desire to experience things that have not yet occurred, also known as a desire to live. If you ask for it, it may be given.”
“Huh” I felt defeated in the best of ways.
“Well then,” I said.

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Does a moment slip through your hand like a handful of sand? Silky and caressing, lingering slightly before slipping away?

Do you experience a moment as you would when trying to grasp water, you can feel that it is there but it just flows, using you as route but never really staying long enough for you to grasp?

 Do you stand before a moment, eyes open and receptive, holding on to every tiny fraction of it in your mind, understanding that this is it?

 Perhaps you do not know that the moment is a moment and you see it simply as a little knot in the string of life. And what if you know that the moment is the moment, and you simply cannot stay with it, cannot enjoy? If instead you race with your mind and thought on to another moment that isn’t what the moment before was destined to be?

And really one should ask, if the moment passed you by, if you rush ahead or are stuck so far behind, was it a true moment in time?

I search for you, moment. I think you hold some answer inside. I think you will be it, something, anything. But by chasing you I think you have been or will be yet and I will be blind, because you will not hold an answer and you might not be “it”, but you are something that it worthy and I will fail to give you  – a moment of my time.   

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This Eternal Struggle

This Eternal Struggle 

Heritage walked through the hearts of man, tugging and pulling, pleading for attention. All most always accompanied by she who wrecks havoc on all – Religion. 

Together they guided the world and instructed man in all  illogical obligations. So strong was their grasp that even an uttered whisper would lead all into deeper chaos.
Many a time Reason and Progression would step into their world and try to break through into thought. But for every mind that was won by them, two would fall deeper, and rage would spread a little further. 
On his own Heritage was quite harmless, merely finding a place for man to place his past and give it sentiment and perspective. 
Oh! But she grabbed hold of Heritage as she grabbed hold of man and she lead him away from his old ways into places where she, Religion, twisted and turned the world, bending it out of shape entirely. 
Progression and Reason fought for sway spreading enlightenment and planting forward thinking wherever they could. 
And so a battle raged on and victories were swapped between all. Years were lead by a side while the other looked on but the scales kept on tipping this way and that. 
Would this battle ever end? Would man find a way to let go of his past? Or his beliefs? Or maybe his future? 
Lives were lost, minds were won but the fight carries on to no conclusion. 
Only hope stays alive waiting for man to tire of this eternal struggle, for a new path to be taken by one and all.  
And peace, she’s here, she is waiting. 


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Spare Parts

Spare Parts / by Ainav R.W


The moon watched over the River, high in the sky as he approached the bridge.

In it’s metal box the heart constricted.

Can a heart get cold? He wondered leaning on the railings holding the box over the dark waters below.

“Are you cold?” he asked the heart aloud but it merely pumped away, sending blood it no longer contained through vessels it was no longer connected to.

He let go of the box, closed his eyes, and waited for the splash.

Walking away his hand fluttered to his chest, feeling for the newly installed metal lying beyond cloth and skin.


Three weeks after his trip to the bridge and the disposed heart is not enough.

He can now feel the feeling in his gut.

For hours he works away in his lab, constructing theories and throwing them out.

Night bleeds into day that bleeds into night as he tries to reach the source of the problem and find a way to uproot and replace it.

What is a gut? Where does the feeling settle? Is it an organ? Or is it the sum of them all?

With no definitive answers at hand he resolves to replace them all.

Working so hard at the challenge at hand he almost forgets about the feeling at all, but when he stops for sleep, when he can work no more, the feeling is there, and he remembers the urgency and desperation of it all.

Three months after his first trip to the bridge he returns, a large bag filled with different shaped metal boxes strapped to his back. As he walks his insides tick and click, thrum and shudder with distinctively metallic sounds.

Once more he closes his eyes and waits for the splash believing that the feeling is safely within the metal boxes sinking away, buried.


This time it is not quite The feeling, but his skin, that itches and tingles with something amiss.

“What do you want?” he yells at it, tearing at it because he knows, he knows that what his skin is missing, what it is craving is touch.

There are many ways to alleviate such aches, and he tries them all.

They work for a while, but after a while it is no use, the skin has to go.

So he sets to the task and he labors night and day away, all the while his skin tingles and it crawls.

For days he pours over the machines, until he is once again standing on that bridge.

He hears none of the racket his new skin makes as he moves, he cares not for the metallic clatter it makes, only for the tingle and itch and all that is gone.


Another part of him falls away.


He is so consumed with the upkeep of his new self that it takes a long time for the feeling to resurface, for his eyes to grab hold of him in the mirror.

He does not see a tin man before him, only the sadness in the eyes staring back at him, remnants of the man that used to be.

The sadness bores into him, accusing, as if to say: “I’m right here; you are not rid of me. I have been here all along”.

Again he finds himself working on a way to remove a part of himself; he has become so skilled at the task that the solution occurs to him almost immediately.

He cannot see the distant, hollow reflection of himself as he leans his hand over the water, holding what he truly believes to be the final box.

The splash sounds stronger and quite final to him.

He walks away.


Every part of his body bangs hollowly as he lays down to sleep that night.

A detached smile etches itself across his face as he falls asleep.

Gone. The feeling is gone, he is quite sure of it. Sure of it right up to the moment when he wakes up screaming.

His lungs are burning, he cannot breathe. The feeling has taken heavy root in his chest.

Sitting up he places his head in his hands and tries to think.

He tries to steer his thoughts toward a solution but his mind is in a panic, why won’t any of it work?

Head in hands he sits there for a long, long while


It is almost dawn when he climbs over the railings of the bridge to hang over the water below.

He had thought and thought that night and it finally came to him after so long.

If only he had spent all the time he had tearing out pieces of himself and building new parts to replace them on finding the real source of the problem, if only he had truly addressed the feeling and tried to face it, solve it, change it, fix it, he might not have found himself crashing into the water, reaching for the old parts of himself in a final attempt to feel whole.


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Boxes/ by Ainav R. W.

She stood before a long line of boxes.

Each one painted an arresting black against the vast sea of blankness surrounding them, stepping closer she noticed every box was labeled.

Walking up to the first box she read the label aloud “Child”.

The box opened for her. As if bidden she climbed in and sat down on a wonderfully comfortable, albeit tiny, child’s bed.

She played about with the toys for a while before her thoughts took over her.

Thinking of all that could be, all that was and all that might be but that she didn’t really believe would ever be, the box ejected her.

She looked at the row of boxes stretching as far as the eye could see and walked on to the next.

“Responsible Adult” she read and once again climbed through.

Sat at a desk in a cubical undistinguishable from any other cubical she had ever seen, it wasn’t long before the thought of all that she must, must do before  she could go home for the day wore her down and wandering away from the generic work desk  the box ejected her.

The next box she tried read “Rebel” and instantaneously she was dancing in the middle of a dark, crowded phosphate colored rave. Cigarette in hand she danced and danced and danced with everyone and anyone who was about.  Drink after drink, song after song. Until morning came and her new found friends passed her the car keys, she barely finished mouthing the word “No” and she was amongst the row of boxes again.

Head pounding she lay down to rest wondering when she would find a box that fitted her.

When she awoke she tried the box titled “Cool” knowing she wouldn’t last long, but “Geek” ejected her just the same.

“Lazy” and “Dreamer” lasted longest but even those wore thin.

Frustrated she wandered the row for a while, a long while that grew harder as she walked on.

Then “Lost” appeared in front of her, as if her mood had called it.

She could have stayed in that box forever. She knew that even if she got out of it eventually she would find her way back.

Angered by the thought of being “Lost” for the rest of time she forced her way out.

Amongst the boxes and now quite furious she started tearing them up, one after the other in a storm. “Not you, not you and not you!” she spat at them. But eventually she calmed down and sat herself between the ruins.

That’s when the idea came.

Lifting up labels from the surrounding wreckage she began sticking them together.

“Freak” with “Normal”, “Free Spirit” with “Strict”. More and more labels she collected. “Intelligent”, “Silly”, “Patient”, “Hothead”, “Bore”, “Wild” and on and on until she had created one big box.

She stood back looking at her work and smiled. A mess of words, it finally made sense.

She climbed into her creation timidly and once she was all the way through she felt, once and forever, at home.

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The Waiting Bench

The Waiting Bench / by Ainav R.W

A little girl dances around a bench oblivious, happy

She does not carry the weight of the world.

Later she sits on the bench, a little older, worry seeping in.

Next year I will… Once I get the grades… When I’m older I’ll be…

A few more years pass and she is on the bench, sitting and waiting, waiting for the next thing to lead her to her destiny, to her plans.

A few more years pass and she sits on the bench completely lost.

Nothing went as planned.

I’m not a doctor… Not a lawyer…

She sits and waits for things to make sense, for a solution to her problems to walk by. Maybe a man, maybe a mentor.

Just anyone who will guide her along.

More years pass and she occupies the bench after a day at work.

Not a career, but a job.

Not a life, an existence.

She has not found her way.

Many years pass and she must walk slowly to the bench.

Her face is marred by the worry lines that have long since taken root.

Her hair is white, her shoulders hunched, crushed by the weight she has carried.

She does not wait anymore.

She knows it won’t be coming.

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