A Boy's Recollection On His Brief Mortal Life, and His Longer Afterlife--Preview

Preview from a book I am currently writing, about a twenty something year old Grim, who is definitely not the grim reaper, but more definitely so destined to be dead.

Someone told me a long time ago that life is a world of twisted games and maniacal laughs, then you go to Hell, where it's the same thing, but hotter.
That's really inaccurate. Life for me was filled with a lot of carefree assholery, and then I died, but I never went to Hell.
Oh, I'm Matthew. But they all call me 'Grim', both the living and dead. No, I'm not the f*****g Grim Reaper. That would be boring. They just call me that because it's clever, seeing how I always knew when I would die. I knew it would be in March, and it would be foggy and light thunderstorms throughout the day. I knew it wouldn't be a painless death, but it was a quick one. I had no idea how I would die, or that I would be stuck here, behind The Wall, with Janet, my guardian, and a smug cat with way too many opinions. I didn't know I would die in a worn out black sweatshirt with 'F**k Society' written in silver sharpie on the hood, that I put there myself, and that I would never see color again. I thought I could at least see that.
Anyways, I'm here now, wherever 'here' is, and I apparently have to know my story before I continue it, according to Janet. So here I am world, about to tell you exactly what happened before and on that foggy March day, in my black sweatshirt, with the color draining from my eyes.

- -

March 1^st 9:07AM

“No one is going to do anything, unless I approve it.” It was Josh's voice that pierced my sleep that morning, and roused my eyes open. I felt the scratchy fabric of the thrift store couch under my cheek, and the blanket tossed over my body.

“What the f**k are you going on about, Joshua?” I asked, seeing the lanky figure crouching in the office chair, glowering at the computer screen. His eyes snapped towards me, grunting at my sight, hen looking back to the computer, running a hand through greasy black hair. He hated being called Joshua. Said it made him seem like a male stripper.

“Good morning, Grim. Trust you're having a good hangover?”

“I didn't come home drunk last night,” I pointed out, sitting up on the couch. “Just sorrowful.”

“Is today the month?” he asked, like he's been asking on the first of March for the past five years, ever since I told him about my death prediction. Usually, he would ask with a teasing manner, punching me lightly in the shoulder. Now, it was with a serious undertone, staring me in the eyes.

“Maybe, I dunno,” I lied. “What were you talking about, something having to do with your approval?” I asked my roommate.

“You got an email,” he announced, turning towards me fully.

“You didn't answer my question,” I said, fiddling with my lip ring and getting up to get a cup of coffee.

“I did. You got an email. And you are not doing whatever the f**k this chick wants you to do without my permission.”

“What?” My mind was still not fully awake. I shuffled my way over to our computer, looking at the email he had opened. “Why did you go through my email?”

“It dinged. I was curious.”

I scoffed, and read what he was talking about.

Dear Grim-

Bonjour! My name is Janet, and I am informing you of your tasks, and your predictions. Oui, today is the month.

Wait, you probably do not have any idea what I am talking about! You already know about your Clock, so I do not need to explain that. Unless you do not know that it is called the Clock. I might have to explain that. Your Clock is what you think it is, your ability to predict your own death, and the deaths of your parents. I'm your guardian, just for clarification, and have been watching you on and off very recently, since your Clock is rapidly approaching the right time. You are not dying today, as you already must know, but you should prepare.

I can explain this better in person. Your band is having a gig tonight at that Zealous club, yes? I will be there, and you will follow what I tell you to do.

With Much Joy,

Your Guardian.

I rubbed my temples, taking another sip of my coffee. “S**t.” Josh pushed away from the desk, staring at me again with those dull grey eyes.

“Are you going to die?” he asked me.

I sighed, and looked at my arm. Goosebumps were rising, and I felt a slight chill woosh past my head.

“Yeah, probably,” I offered as an answer.

“Do I have to find a new roommate?” he asked. “One that actually pays his share of the rent?”

I flipped him off, and went into the crappy bathroom with tiles chipping off of the walls, setting my cup of coffee on the counter in there. I splashed some water on my face, and examined my hair in the mirror. My mohawk was becoming more yellow than orange at that moment, making it look like I was trying to be sunshine or something.

“I'm going to class,” Josh informed me rather loudly, leaning against the door frame, olive green messenger bag slung across his shoulder to further prove his plans.

“Have fun with that,” I said, not particularly caring.

He lingered around, eyebrows furrowed. “I'm coming to your show tonight.”

“You hate my music.” I squeezed the last drops of toothpaste onto the brush.

“I do. With a passion.” He cracked his knuckles. “I just want to check out this Janet girl.”

“Why?” I spat out the gunk into the sink, wiping my mouth with my arm.

“She might be lying, and trying to rape you.”

I snorted, getting out the guyliner from the bathroom mirror cabinet. “First of all, I would not mind if she raped me. She sounds French. Maybe she knows how to do things with her tongue.” Josh shuddered, hating when I say anything remotely sexual around him. “And second, she couldn't be lying. No one knows it's called The Clock. No one also knows that I predicted my parent's death.”

“You actually knew when your 'rents would kick the bucket?”

“Isn't it soooo cool?” I deadpanned, closing the mirror and turning to him. “You're going to be late.”

“What, can you predict my schedule, now, too?” he asked, glancing down at his watch. “S**t!” he yelled, racing out of the door. “I'm gonna be late!”

Speaking of late, I pulled out my cell phone (stolen from Josh) and dialed my boss's number. “I'm gonna be...a few minutes late,” I told him when he picked up.

A few colorful Spanish swears from him later, and he's demanding me to actually work. “You can't keep stumbling in half an hour after your shift starts, then sleep 'till your break. Come in on time today, or you're fired.”

A few colorful English swears from me, and I agreed, quickly pulling on t-shirt and deciding that yesterday's jeans are still fresh. I tossed the cell phone into my trusty backpack that I've had since high school, and get into my s****y band van.

“Start, please,” I prayed, shoving the key in twisting it with real force n' heart. The van gods up above, bless them, allowed my baby to rev to life. I did a Tiger Woods fist pump, flipping on the radio to the heavy metal station and slamming my foot on the accelerator. My digital time clock ticks up above, alerting that it's 9:23, allowing a tiny seven minute slot to get to work. It's a fifteen minute commute, so I was there in five.

Author's Note

The title is definitely pending. It sucks, doesn't it? Got any ideas?
The book is approx. 50,000 words long (don't call me on this) and will be on here in the distant future. Like what you see? Hate what you don't? Tell me!

Reviews

[roarke]

Glad to see the summer writer's block is dissolving. lol. the title has too many words in it... but you'll figure that out.

Great characters. Expressive dialogue. Mysterious French girls eh? hahahhaa
Don't put any restriction on length, unless it's under 3k words. Just write it and handle the excess in drafts. You never know what will come out and present itself to you if you just write.

btw do I have to be dead or dying to love your stuff? just wanted to know, my clock is a little gitchy....hahahahaaha