Death is a lonely business. But it’s really not. As death, you get to meet and interact with billions of souls. After many years of reaping, you finally decide to retire and pass on the job to those with the best stories. Describe who you would pick
“I’m honored that you thought of me as a possible replacement,” said the soul, “but I must say, I’m not sure I understand the criteria. A prerequisite to being death is to be … a good storyteller?”
“Mm, not precisely,” said death. “You see, we’re looking for someone who’s good at endings.”
“Ah!”
The retirement party was a small gathering, a table full of finger foods, a bowl of punch. Mingling around the room were the souls of famous writers, directors, comedians, assorted storytellers, and a number of people who had died relatively unknown.
“You see, sometimes there’s a happy ending,” said death. “You live a good long life and you die surrounded by your loved ones, or die in service of some cause you believe in – those are easy. Or maybe the death’s tragic – that’s a very viable sort of ending as well. You’re cut down in the prime of your life, or you never had a chance to begin with, and your death was the capstone to a life of suffering. In either case, it’s relatively easy to have the death make sense in retrospect. Of course, this is the conclusion to your life. How else could it have been?
“Even absurdity,” said death, “even that can make for a meaningful ending. You die by some idiotic accident, or by some one-in-a-million chance you could have never seen coming. As long as you can appreciate the absurdity afterwards, laugh at the abruptness of it, even that can be a perfectly valid way to end a life.
“But all too often,” sighed death, “it doesn’t mean anything at all. People just die, for no good reason. And it is in a sense tragic, in the same way all death can be tragic, but not in a way that makes for a satisfying narrative. You were following the story – and then it’s over, just like that.
“Well,” said death, and stretched. “Enough chit-chat. Let’s see what you can do.” It pulled a bulging folder from its robes. “A 46 year old housewife, mother of two, a blood vessel burst in her head while she was preparing dinner, she died two days later in the hospital. Son had graduated and was still living with them, looking for work; daughter was in college. Marriage was relatively happy, but had long since fallen into routine.” Death tossed over the folder. “All the details of her life in there. Now quick, at the moment you harvest her – make a story of it.”
The soul fumbled with the file, flipped through it rapidly, searching for some sort of narrative thread, some resolution, but nothing immediately stood out. “Ah,” they said, and coughed. “Um, ach, my throat, it’s – ahem, ahem. I’m sorry,” they said, “But if I could just get – ahem – a drink … ?”
Death gave a bored nod.
The soul quickly turned to the refreshments table, hoping for a massive crowd surrounding the punch bowl, for a line long enough that they would have enough time to come up with a satisfying conclusion. But they saw, to their horror, that all the other souls had hastily parted to give them room, and that there was no punchline.
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