Death stalked the convention, scythe at its side. There were other grim reapers, but they were laughing men and women who roamed among the other costumed characters posing for pictures and drinking at the bar. Death didn’t pose, didn’t laugh. It walked in a straight line from the glassed in foyer to the auditorium.
Everyplace Death passed, people shrank away. Though none of them saw it, they all felt the cold pall that settled in its wake. In the auditorium, it strode down the center aisle, leaving waves of nausea.
A heavily armored knight thudded to the podium and began to speak. “Welcome to the Third Annual Cosplay Ball!”
A woman dressed in Harlequin clothes muttered to her identical companion, “He’s such an idiot.”
“I’m not wearing these skimpy things next year,” the other Harlequin agreed.
The knight said, “I saw many of you at the bar last night! I don’t know about you, but I am still feeling those mudslides!” A murmur of agreement rippled through the audience.
The first Harlequin said, “Next year, I bet I can get elected.”
“We’ll make up a theme where he has to come out in a G-String.”
“Now,” the knight continued. “I give you my co-presenters.” He gestured to the Harlequins, who moved to flank him. He stepped back. “Angela,” he muttered to the first Harlequin. “Can you do this? I’m going to puke.”
The first Harlequin widened her eyes. “You got it.”
As she moved in to replace the knight, a flicker of motion right in the middle of the podium caught her eye. She saw Death’s black hood for just an instant as he reached past her. And then Death turned, and she saw him square on.
Death said, “It’s not the mudslides.”
Then Death vanished and the knight in his full armor clanked to the floor.
Angela turned to the microphone and spoke her first words as the consortium president. “We need doctors. Who else ate the shrimp?”
In homage to Terry Pratchett.
Whee!!! Trifecta is going on about DEATH this week.
I gave Trish this prompt: Dear God I’m so used to being late. It felt all wrong being early. I looked around for anyone else on the floor, suddenly beset by paranoia that I’d come on the wrong day altogether.
Jessie Powell is the Jester Queen. She likes to tell you about her dog, her kids, her fiction, and her blog, but not necessarily in that order.