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Written by WyattJMoore Winner of the "In Life and Death" Contest Prompt: A person goes out one morning and meets an odd man in the street who tells them they'll die that night in an unexpected manner. How does this person go on living their alleged last day? And do they really die in the end?
The smell is what I remember above everything else. I was up at the ass crack of dawn, nearly getting trampled by the stampede of telemarketers, insurance claims adjusters and other suit clad professionals. Some jagoff bumped my elbow, making me clench onto my coffee cup and scorch my fingers with the overpriced elixir, staining the pavement below my feet.
I remember that I didn't cross the road with the horde, even though the tiny light-up man on the other side was telling me to. As I wiped my coffee covered hand on the side of my pants and dropped the mostly empty cup in the overflowing corner garbage can. Then that smell hit me, and he grabbed my shoulder.
"Tonight, by thine own hand!" I didn't register what he said at first, I only registered that trashy, pukish smell mixed with candy wafting out of his mouth and into my nose.
When I finally turned to face him (I couldn't really avoid it because he kept pulling on my shoulder, trying to get me to turn around) I also remember him looking oddly out of place. The buildings that tickled the bottoms of the clouds and cars moving in a pattern less logical than an ant colony didn't seem at all where this man belonged. I'm not sure where he belonged, with his miniature green tie, half shaven face and comically large shoes, but I'd say it was somewhere between Middle Earth and the set of Ed Wood.
"Cherish these final moments. They're slipping through your fingers, like a forgotten feather."
As I pulled away from him, the weirdo plucked a feather from his pocket and gently blew it over to me. It wouldn't have been a big deal, but with my tender hand still wet from the coffee it floated gently into my palm and stuck there.
Leaving me with nothing but a memory and his feather in my palm, the man weaved his way into the next hoard of suits crossing the street. I stood there for far too long, looking at the matted, pocket worn feather, wondering not about how I might perish, but how long he'd held onto this feather. It seemed well loved, so loved that I felt the tiniest tinge of guilt when I shook it off my hand and carried on across the street.
The scenario played over and over again in my head as I walked to work, the UPMC Steel Building over on Grant Street in downtown. Wondering less about how I'm supposedly going to kill myself, and more about how a poor soul ends up like that.
As I rode the elevator up to the eleventh floor, still replaying the events in my head like a mini-movie, I hit the mental "pause" button when I got to the coffee spill part, then looked down at my suit jacket. Stained. Horribly stained. Josh would blow his top when he saw it.
