Idol Week One: Resolution.
The Book of the Emissaries
Retold from the manuscripts of the Underworld.
One.
The Recruitment of Evelyn Fairchild.
Right now, in the very moment you are reading this, a story is beginning somewhere in the universe. Slimy and squalling, and quite possibly covered in shit – life begins.
In polite company, we seem to avoid talking about the inevitability of the end.
This is not polite company.
This is the story of the messangers of Death.
We meet Evelyn Fairchild at the end.
The circle of life shall not be resolved.
Last night, you see, Evelyn tiptoed along the bank of the river with a pound coin in the pocket of her dress. Unsure how to summon the ferryman, she took the most direct approach.
Drowning is never quite as elegant as the poets would have you believe.
Later, she would describe death as the simple absence of time. It was, she realised, much the same as being alive, without the hassle of corporeal toileting habits.
She missed the taste of gin.
Without time as a constraint, her thoughts became entangled.
Linearity is the preserve of the living.
Of course, Evelyn had been born and lived a thoroughly unremarkable life. Like you, she entered the world as a slimy, squalling babe, layered in blood and shit. Like you, she has already died.
Most people die covered in blood or shit.
Is the beginning an echo of the end, or does the end follow the beginning?
By the time she was pulled into the boat and clothed in the cape of the night, the memories of her life had faded. No matter. She had actually been, until now, quite dull.
“Miss Fairchild.” A whisper from everywhere and nowhere. “Welcome.”
There was a scythe propped against the trunk of an ancient oak.
She was faintly surprised to see a tree in the afterlife.
This line does not work in the absence of
She was given one instruction. It began as this:
“We have a murder for you to commit.”
Retold from the manuscripts of the Underworld.
One.
The Recruitment of Evelyn Fairchild.
Right now, in the very moment you are reading this, a story is beginning somewhere in the universe. Slimy and squalling, and quite possibly covered in shit – life begins.
In polite company, we seem to avoid talking about the inevitability of the end.
This is not polite company.
This is the story of the messangers of Death.
We meet Evelyn Fairchild at the end.
The circle of life shall not be resolved.
Last night, you see, Evelyn tiptoed along the bank of the river with a pound coin in the pocket of her dress. Unsure how to summon the ferryman, she took the most direct approach.
Drowning is never quite as elegant as the poets would have you believe.
Later, she would describe death as the simple absence of time. It was, she realised, much the same as being alive, without the hassle of corporeal toileting habits.
She missed the taste of gin.
Without time as a constraint, her thoughts became entangled.
Linearity is the preserve of the living.
Of course, Evelyn had been born and lived a thoroughly unremarkable life. Like you, she entered the world as a slimy, squalling babe, layered in blood and shit. Like you, she has already died.
Most people die covered in blood or shit.
Is the beginning an echo of the end, or does the end follow the beginning?
By the time she was pulled into the boat and clothed in the cape of the night, the memories of her life had faded. No matter. She had actually been, until now, quite dull.
“Miss Fairchild.” A whisper from everywhere and nowhere. “Welcome.”
There was a scythe propped against the trunk of an ancient oak.
She was faintly surprised to see a tree in the afterlife.
This line does not work in the absence of
She was given one instruction. It began as this:
“We have a murder for you to commit.”