Birth

Life.
full of strife.
senselessly murdering others with a knife.
the never-ending sound of a funeral fife.
but why do we do this?
out of anger, or hatred?
No, it's because we like to watch others get wasted.

     Jack looked at the editor as she carefully looked over his most recent work, nitpicking it in her mind.
     "Hm....I don't like it." she stated, looking up at him, a serious look on her face.
     "What? why not? I mean, I put a lot of time and effort into this one." She slid the poem scross her desk back to him.
     "I just don't like it. People don't want to hear about death and misery, Mr. Phylar. They want love, happiness, the beauty of nature. that kind of stuff."
     "But there's none that that s**t in this freaking city!" Jack yelled, standing up, obviously outraged.
     "I write about what i see, and all i see in this f*****g city is crime, death, and corruption."
     "Well then sir," she said, handing him his papers and walking towards the door.
     "Then i suggest you find a publisher who likes your style of thinking. Good Evening, Sir."
     Jack just sighed and made his way out of the building. That was the 9th publisher who rejected his work, claiming it was "Far too depressing to have the name of our company on it." He looked around as he buttoned up his coat. There was no beauty, no happiness in this godforsaken town. He trudged the few blocks to his home: and extremely rundown loft in the poor section of the city. He looked at what surrounded him; Was Veterans with no homes, Children alone in the cold with nowhere to go, gangs preparing crimes. There was no love in this place.

     Jack's apartment wasn't actually that bad. It seemed to suit him well, and the rent was somehow always paid. He thumbed through his mail: Rejection letters, bills, ads, the usual. But what seemed to stick out to him were the amounts of black envelopes he seemed to keep receiving. Jack had been depressed enough for one night, so he simply tossed the letters to the side and headed off for his bed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

     "So, whose case do I have now? some recovering alcoholic who needs support, or another hopeless suicidal romantic?" Rikki asked with a sense of monotony in her voice. she looked at her superior, who was silently looking through his pile of papers.
     "Come on Gabriel, you have to have Something for me, Anything!" She pleaded to the archangel sitting in front of her.
     "I just want to earn my wings..."
     "You really want a case that bad Rikki?" He asked, finally breaking his silence.
    "Yes, but make it something challenging." The hyper little angel said, wanting to prove her worth for once.
     "Well, I do have something, but I could never trust it to an angel who doesn't even have her wings yet."
     Rikki sighed and hit her knees, looking up at him.
     "Come on Gabriel, Please?I Promise, If I fail this one, I'll work the gate for as long as you want." she begged, wanting to show that she was worthy of her wings.
    "....alright, fine." Rikki jumped up and squealed so loud Gabriel dropped his papers and covered his ears.
     "shhh, gosh, could you seriously be any louder just then?" He joked. He handed her a case file, with the name "Jack Phylar" on it.
     "This is your new case. His name is Jack. He is a writer living in the big city."
     "Ok, so, what makes this case so much more special than the other ones?"
     "Because jack is being followed...by Death."
    "Death!? why the heck is death following an innocent writer?"
     "Because, unlike the rest of humanity, his soul is a pure one, and you know how death likes pure souls, don't you?"
    Rikki froze and had a quick flashback of her life. she shook it off and looked back at her boss.
   "you might wanna hurry up and get going. Besides, you're not the only angel I have to assign a case to." he said, picking his papers back up and continuing his reading,
     "Yes sir!" she said happily. she ran out of his office and took off for the real world.