Drabble: Dead Mondays – by Ann Weeth

by specklit

Sometimes her day job was not as much fun as she had previously been led to believe. She swung her scythe, harvesting another soul, number forty-seven. This one was a real asshole. She could tell.

“What the hell?” He turned on her angrily, or at least his soul did. The body pretty much stayed where it was underneath a now shrieking hooker. Poor thing was going to be traumatized.

“You’re dead.”

“I can’t be! I’m blah-blah…” she stopped listening.

He started cursing the same time he started fading. Not her job to know what happened next. God, she hated Mondays.

Author’s Note: Stories about death are often cliché, and somewhat emo. I like to write them a little tongue in cheek.


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