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They want me to tell you about Death. No, not the kind where you stop breathing but, my best friend. I don't know what good telling you about him now is going to do but, they told me I couldn't leave until I "expressed" my feelings so, here goes.
He was born with a name, you know a normal one but, Death is all I knew him by so, that's just gonna have to do for this story. He was like no other person I have ever met. He would help you with out knowing your name and he didn't care if you ever got around to giving back to him whatever it was he gave. He wasn't a saint or anything, hell, he had done a lot of stuff that most people would consider criminal but, he was always there to stand up for the underdog. That's how we met.
I had only been on the streets about six months and I was starting to wonder if I'd have to start tricking to eat. I hitched a ride into this wonderful town hoping, hell, I don't know what I was hoping. Maybe that I would find someone willing to hire a kid who looked liked yesterdays road kill and give me a new start on life. Yeah, back then I still had crazy dreams, which is why everyone calls me The Dreamer. Anyway, it didn't take me long to figure out that pipe dream was not going to surface. I had been here two weeks and had managed to accomplish nothing other than catching a cold. It was night time, pouring rain and three homicidal maniacs decided I was going to be there nightly entertainment. They had smacked me around for about twenty minutes when Death came out of no where and started kicking some serious ass. I was in shock, I think. I mean, here's this guy, six feet two inches tall, pale skin, jet black hair and he's saving me. I thought they had hit me in the head one to many times. I just laid there and stared, which was not like me at all, 'cause usually you can't keep me out of a fight. By the time I realized I really should get up and help this guy, my attackers where gone. He walked over, helped me up, took me to a flop he knew and fed me. All without saying a word. Death didn't talk a lot so, when he had something to say, everyone listened. I could tell you lots of stories about the things Death and me did together but, that would take away some of the magic. And the magic is all I have left!
You wanted me to write about my friend, well, how's this; the face you saw, briefly, splashed across your TV screen was my best friend. You remember, in between the sports cast and the no talent blonde tossing her hair as she said good night. The boy with the angel face, found dead on the Eastside. Is it coming back to you? Ah yes, that poor young man. The one who managed to keep your attention for all of thirty seconds. You've had your twinge of guilt, you've shook your head, you've let out a sigh and you think that's enough. Yet, the next time you pass a street kid who is obviously starving, you'll shake your head no, when asked for change. You'll avoid making eye contact and act as though you didn't hear. You talk to your friends and discuss the downfall of today’s youth. You call yourselves caring, productive members of society. My friend had nothing! His clothes where goodwill specials, he ate food you threw out, but he would give up his only dollar so a kid smaller than him could eat. You called my friend a bum, a beggar, and more often than not a thief. Most the kids on the street called him their hero, I just called him friend.
My best friend died yesterday, and he will be missed.
The Dreamer
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Reader Reviews for
"Death and The Dreamer"
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| Reviewed by Christy Condoleo |
6/8/2008 |
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| Wow! Very poignant and true. Excellent short there my friend. I will have to add you to my 'authors to watch' list. |
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| Reviewed by Lois Christensen |
2/28/2008 |
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| Loved this short story. Must read your poetry too. My husband deceased as of Aug 17 07 and am still grieving. If he was not such a nice and loving person, maybe I'd get over him sooner. But he is in heaven now with many colors, he loved his colorful things. |
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