Jack strode into the barn, quietly easing shut the doors behind him. His eyes swiftly adjusted to the dim, pre-dawn light filtering through the hay loft window. Before long, he had tracked the chicken to an empty stall in the rear of the barn. A feral grin overtook his face as he came to the realization that there would be no escape for his prey this time. He raised the axe, preparing to finish the job. Looking down at the chicken, he couldn't help but ponder for a moment how much his life had changed in the last five months. How much better it had all been before the drought. This had been his favorite chicken, the only one he would never consider slaughtering or carting off to be sold at market. It would sometimes follow him to the fields in the morning, beating its wings playfully as it went. Jack stared down at the emaciated chicken cowering before him and compared it to the memories of the strong, carefree bird that he had once considered a friend. Then, he peered down at his own shrunken body and tattered clothes and thought of the powerful, proud man he had been. Five months. Looking back at the chicken, he saw fear in its eyes, but for the first time, something else as well. Confusion? It had to be. The shock and bewilderment brought on by seeing an old friend turning on him. He gazed into the chicken's eyes one last time before he lowered the axe and removed its head in one swift, merciless stroke. After all, he thought as the chicken's headless corpse dashed across the barn aimlessly, bright red arterial blood gushing from its neck as if from a fountain, a man's got to eat. He laughed then, a thin, high-pitched shriek of a laugh that still echoed in the cavernous barn long after the chicken's corpse had fallen still. After the last strains of his twisted laughter had finally died away, Jack found himself once again thankful that his wife had not heard him. Surely, she would have thought him mad.

Chapter Two

Jack stood at the edge of the forest, looking down on the valley. The day had just begun, and he could tell from the dozen or so plumes of smoke eminating from chimneys in the town below that people were just beginning to rise. She knows, he thought has he stared down on the miniscule rectangle surrounded by dead crops that he knew was his own farmhouse, she has to know by now. His wife had insisted that they save the chicken. Keep it as a pet. She had intended to head into town today and buy what little food she could with their few remaining coins. But he could not wait. He was growing faint from hunger. Jack quickly abandoned this train of thought and concentrated on striking the flint and steel together. He tried for several more minutes to start a fire in this fashion before a spark finally touched down and ingnited the kindling. He then whittled a spit, upon which he impaled the plucked chicken. He held it over the fire and began to slowly turn it. After an uncomfortably long wait, Jack cut into the chicken with his pocket knife. Seeing that it was done, he removed it from the spit and sat down, at long last, to eat. Just as he was about to take his first bite, a voice called out from behind him. It said:

"Good day, sir. How does this morning find you?"

As Jack whirled around, his gaze fell upon a man wearing well-mended, but ragged clothing, held together by numerous crudely-stitched patches. A plain brown sack was slung over his shoulder. He was a young man, not more than thirty. Jack then took note of how dirty and ill-shaven the man was, as if from many days of hard travel. He probably smells as bad as he looks, Jack thought, glad he was not downwind of him.

"And who are you?" Jack asked suspiciously.

"Only a humble traveller." The man replied, "I am very hungry, sir, and I was wondering if I might share in your meal, seeing as you have plenty."

Plenty! Jack grew angry.

"I'll be damned if I'm going to share my meal with a worthless begger!" he shouted. "Begone!"

At this, a strange and wonderous transformation took place. The man's piecemail robes grew together and formed a shining white robe. The dirt and stubble vanished from his face. He stooped posture became straight and perfect. Although he still stood no taller than Jack, he seemed to be looking down on him, as if from some great height.

He looks like a god, Jack thought, and not without good reason, as this radiant being could be taken for nothing else. The God then spoke to Jack, saying:

"Greedy wretch! I offered you the chance to atone for the sin of stealing that chicken. By demonstrating compassion, you could have proven yourself worthy of forgiveness. But it is too late for that now. I leave you to your fate."

And then, the God vanished in a burst of white light, leaving Jack alone once more.

Chapter Three

Jack stood dumbfounded. He remained staring blankly into the space which the God had occupied only a moment before. His mind raced. What horrible fate had the God intended for him? Would some great demon rise up from the pits of Hell to devour him? Perhaps he would contract a wasting disease and die a slow, lingering death. Amazingly, he had lost all desire to eat. Maybe if I hurry home and apologize to my wife, he thought, maybe then I will be forgiven.

"You are beyond forgivness." Spoke a chilling voice from behind him.

Jack spun around and saw a truly terrifying creature. It was easily over seven feet tall. It's entire body was wrapped in a decaying black shroud. In its left hand, it held a massive scythe, the blade of which was stained dark brown in places with what Jack hoped was rust, but knew in his heart to me something else entirely.

"Who are you?" Jack asked, fearing he already knew the answer.

The figure did not reply.

"Have you come for me?" he inquired timidly.

The figure slowly nodded.

"For my soul?"

Another nod, confirming his worst fear.

"But why? Surely I do not deserve to die!"

The figure uttered a single word:

"Behold."

As Jack watched, the creature waved its scythe towards the trees at the forest edge. They parted, revealing the ruins of an ancient chapel. On the crumbling steps of this chapel, Jack saw two candles. The first candle was a pure snow white and stood at least three feet tall. The wax had not yet begun to drip down the white candle's side, indicating that it had only recently been lit. The flame burned bright and strong.

The second candle was of the deepest jet black. Its blackness was such that it seemed to almost consume the light around it. This candle, however, consisted of little more than a worn down stub. As Jack looked on, the flame sputtered, indicating that it would soon be extinguished.

The Reaper spoke:

"The white candle represents the life of the honest man, pure and strong. Burning long and bright. The black candle is the life of the dishonest man. Small, weak, and snuffed out all too quickly. You became the dishonest man when you stole the chicken. Thus, your time here grows short. You must come with me."

"No." muttered Jack, backing away in horror. He thought of his wife and his farm. They were his whole life. He couldn't just leave them. Now now. Not like this.

"No!" This time it was a shout. He turned away from the Reaper and began to run as fast as he could down the mountainside. Back towards home. He hadn't gotten far when he came to the steep edge of a cliff. He looked down. It was at least a two-hundred foot drop down the sheer cliff to the jagged rocks below.

Jack had no choice. He had to turn back. He turned around, and found himself face to face with the Reaper.

""Get away!" he cried as the Reaper slowly advanced, "I don't want to go!"
He stepped back and nearly fell as his left foot slid over the cliff edge. The Reaper extended his right hand towards Jack. To his horror, he noted that the hand bore no flesh, only white bone.

""I don't want to go!" Jack repeated frantically, shrieking it louder and more desperately with each inch the Reaper advanced.

"In another moment, the skeletal hand was less than half a foot away from Jack's face. In blind terror, he pulled away, only realizing his mistake as he plunged to his death.

"On the windswept cliff edge above, the dark figure of the Grim Reaper stood listening as the echos of Jack's final, hideous scream reverberated off the cliff walls.

"It then peered down at Jack's broken body as it lay in a pool of blood and tissue on the ground below. Satisfied, the figure nodded once, and was gone.

The End

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