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Don't Fear the Reaper
Robert M. Hunter

The sun shone through the wintry clouds on that day. It was neither bright nor dull it was just there. Cars drove into the parking lot with solemn drivers and passengers. There was joy to be seen in this day, for it had all been taken away by a man in a suit with pale wrinkly skin and deep sunken eyes full of hatred and greed. He wanted only one thing from her. It was not her money, which she would have never given. It was not her kindness, which she would have given if she knew it would help. Nor was it anything on this mortal plane he desired to have. Her house was nothing to him, for what is one such as he to do with an old farm house. The ever hyper dog named Buttons was also something he would pass up, for again what would something such as him to do with a dog named Buttons. Her seemingly limitless rings and necklaces and items of clothing were of no value to him, for he was alone and he did not seek such materialistic things like we mortal beings do. This man in the black suit, with his pale gray skin and sunken eyes full of hatred wanted the one thing no one ever wants to part with. He was a Reaper, and taken her life was his job.

I ask myself, why I do such things like that. Why do I create some sort of supernatural cause to everything in life, especially things that should bring about emotion? Perhaps it is merely a way to exercise my imagination? Or, perhaps it is because I am an emotionless, cold hearted, self centered man? That is what my brother calls me, and as I look around at the gathering family members I can see it too in their red swollen eyes. Stale tears streak their cheeks and sniffling fills the once quiet chapel. It hurts to see people see me in that light. If they only knew I mutter to myself. If they only the battles I fought daily then they truly would understand that I am indeed just like them, it is just I have lost all desire to express my emotions externally.
The preacher approaches the podium and straightens out some papers he has undoubtedly placed there to keep him on focus while he delivered his message during this sad and dreary day. Yet, as I sit here in the hard wobbly seat next to my cousin Crystal I cannot help myself but wonder what it must be like to be dead. To lay in a casket and be peered upon by family who care for you. My thoughts go to what life must truly be after death. Do we, when we die just seize to exist or does our life pick up from where

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